


Ascending

by Locked (Jlocked)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jlocked/pseuds/Locked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are friends and they work well together. But sometimes it only takes a little thing to shift a delicate ballance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

”For the last time, I’m not getting off this couch for anything less than a seven. Now piss off!”

Greg had turned to John, a desperate plea in his eyes.

And now, John was hurrying through wet and dark London streets, trying to keep track of a man named Arthur Leigh, while not being seen himself.

...

Greg had been concerned about a steady leak of sensitive information from Scotland Yard to some rather unsavoury elements of London's organised crime scene. He had a couple of suspects and wanted Sherlock to observe them during a briefing about a raid planned for Friday night.

When Sherlock had refused, Greg had convinced John to come along, despite his insistence that he wouldn't be much help. Greg's plan B was, that he, John, and Donovan, who was apparently the only other person he had confided in, should follow the suspects in the hours following the briefing, hoping to catch one of them passing on information.

So, John had come along, been thoroughly ignored by Donovan (though he thought to himself that she should have been more grateful to see him rather than “the freak”), and been set on this hulk of a man.

Leigh was without a doubt the largest man John had ever seen squeezed into a suit. He looked like a wrestler and moved like an ox. Obviously, John was not thrilled.

He had followed Leigh to the nearest tube station and managed to stay out of sight on the train. There had been brief moment of panic, as he nearly didn’t get off the train in time, and then they were out on the streets.

...

Leigh was clearly headed for a shady part of town, and John thought that this job might be over a lot quicker than he would have dared to hope. Not that he really wanted it to be over. It was quite a thrill to be doing this on his own, rather than just tagging along (or struggling to keep up).

He could do this. He almost laughed out loud.

So absorbed in smug thoughts about how Sherlock would react if John solved this case on his own, he nearly blew the whole thing. He turned a corner and found Leigh standing a little ways down the alley, smoking a cigarette while thumbing his phone (texting?)

It was sheer luck that Leigh didn’t look up for the seconds it took John duck back around the corner.

Pressing his back against the wall, he closed his eyes and cursed his stupidity.

“Smooth,” the deep voice murmured, so close to his ear that he would have yelped in shock had a strong slender hand not covered his mouth just in time. He opened his eyes.

“For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock hissed. “You might as well just walk up and announce yourself.”

It was a good thing Sherlock’s hand still covered John’s mouth, or he would have said something nasty (and probably undignified). Instead, he just glared at Sherlock.

Sherlock glared back and then slowly removed his hand.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, John suppressed the reflex to ask Sherlock what the fuck he was doing there. He really didn’t want to know. But Sherlock would probably tell him anyway.

The sound of voices drifted around the corner.

“Yeah, Friday.” Leigh was talking quite loud.

Another voice answered, but John couldn’t hear the exact words. Nonetheless, he was sure he knew exactly what was going on. Shooting Sherlock a victorious grin, he dug out his phone and quickly composed a text letting Greg know that Leigh was the leak.

He loved this. He had done this on his own. Sherlock’s presence had done nothing. Except perhaps startle him and piss him off.

He had just opened his mouth to declare he was done, and that it was time to leave when Sherlock raised a finger to his lips, his eyes darting towards the alley.

Now John heard it too. Footsteps. They were coming this way. Panic rising in his stomach, John looked around. There was nowhere near them where they could hide. Shit!

“Just act casually,” Sherlock advised in a barely audible whisper.

“He’s seen me with Greg,” John hissed through clenched teeth. “If he recognises me, he’ll know why I’m here. Shit, Sherlock. What’ll I do?”

Sherlock’s lips formed a silent 'oh', and John could see his brain kicking into overdrive.

“I think the boss is getting suspicious,” he heard Leigh. Too close. “My risk is rising and so will the fees.”

The other man grumbled and John reached for his gun before remembering that he hadn’t brought it.

Then Sherlock grabbed the front of his jacket with both hands and shoved him up against the wall. A fraction of a second before the two men turned the corner, he swooped down and crushed his lips against John’s, burying his face in the cloud of dark curls.

Luckily, John was too shocked to move. Otherwise he might have shoved Sherlock away, or even punched him. For a brief moment a strange, whitish buzzing filled his head. Then he caught up. Sherlock's hands moved up to his cheeks, as the two men walked right by them. Bodily instinct came to John’s aid, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hopefully making the whole thing look more believable.

It wasn't a kiss. Just lips sliding dryly against each other as Sherlock moved his head, as if trying to get a better angle. Then Sherlock moaned and John thought he heard Leigh mutter “Fucking queers!”

The footsteps were receding, and Sherlock pulled away, only to move his head down as if to kiss John’s neck, keeping his own head between John’s face and the two men.

John gasped for air, not realising until now, that he’d been holding his breath, and nearly inhaled half of Sherlock’s hair.

“Sher…” he sputtered but was shushed. So he just stood there, arms still around Sherlock, feeling his hot breath against his neck. For some reason, it made the hair on his arms stand on end, and, once again, he found that he had a hard time catching his breath.

After what seemed an eternity, Sherlock pulled back, looking down the street where Leigh and the other man had disappeared. Then he looked at John with that infuriatingly unreadable expression that he mastered so well.

“Ehm…” John started. “I…” he tried. “That was…” he faltered.

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock’s smile was more than a little smug. And then he was at the curb, hailing a taxi, with John following on unsteady legs.

...

John was clearly fuming, but Sherlock wasn't sure he knew why. Okay, so he had kissed him. Well, pretended to kiss him, anyway. But it had been the only logical way to prevent the suspect from recognizing John, and Sherlock thought he'd been quite delicate about the whole thing.

And John had seemed to understand, responding appropriately.

So why was he so angry?

Sherlock looked out of the window of the cab. He did not need to see John to know that he was staring at him, arms crossed with an air of outrage. The rhythm of his breathing and his weight on the seat told Sherlock all he needed to know.

He considered asking what the problem was, but experience had taught him that when it came to things like this, John was really very cliche. He was under the assumption that Sherlock not knowing what he had done wrong somehow made it twice as bad.

So, the best thing he could do was wait. Over the past month or so, John had been growing increasingly impatient with him, and it wouldn't be long before he would start giving Sherlock a piece of his mind.

...

Sherlock could have timed it. As if on cue, John took in a long deep breath and spoke:

“What were - ” he started, but Sherlock interrupted him, too impatient to wait for him to finish a sentence that they both knew the ending to.

“I followed you.”

John sputtered. “You did _what_?”

“Followed you. It wasn't exactly difficult.” Sherlock kept his face turned towards the window, keeping his voice calm and cool.

“But.... but why?” John managed.

Now Sherlock turned and looked at him. Something in his eyes made John clench his fist and bite his lip. “Because you needed me.”

Sherlock knew that John would have loved nothing more than to have been able to come up with a biting retort, but the evidence was against him. If it hadn't been for Sherlock he'd be, at best, lying injured in the alley, instead of cringing in the back seat of a cab.

“You said it was a five, at best.”

A feeble attempt. The anger was still there, but John seemed to be deflating. That was for the best. No need to turn this into another row.

“And you weren't getting off the sofa for anything less than a seven.”

Sherlock nodded, but still waited, giving John a chance to figure it out for himself.

“So what made you change your mind?”

Wrong!

“I didn't.”

Must he really explain everything? This was not up to John's usual standard.

“The case was a five and you on the case was a two.”

Even John should be able to do the arithmetic.

Finally. It took him a moment but then comprehension dawned.

“So... you didn't change your mind. The case changed its grade.” Why did John sound so insincere?

“Yes.” It was obvious wasn't it?

They sat in silence, for a while. Then John picked up the thread.

“Why is me being on the case a two?”

Good, John asking for information and explanation. This he could work with.

“It increased the likelihood of an actual incident requiring action, rather than just observing and deducing. More fun that way.”

John huffed, resentful now. Sherlock replayed the conversation a couple of times, superimposing John’s point of view, feelings and even his current body chemistry based on dinner, sleep-levels and his last abortive date with... Jennifer? Jessica?

John was feeling insecure. Greg asking him to fill in for Sherlock had been an ego boost, while at the same time making him feel like second choice. Doing this case on his own would have made him feel a little less inferior to Sherlock, but his intervention had laid waste to that plan.

Sherlock mentally kicked himself. He could have easily handled this without John knowing. But instead, being eager to share the thrill of the hunt/chase, like they usually did, he had swooped in and saved the day while ruining everything for John. It was so easy to make mistakes like that when dealing with John, and it was driving Sherlock insane. Knowing what John was feeling and thinking did, somehow, not correspond with knowing what John wanted. He had all these contradictory sentiments and motives, making it impossible to predict when he would approve or feel resentment.

This time, Sherlock had clearly not handled things according to John's needs. Sherlock always feared that these incidents would drive a wedge between them, destroying this unique friendship that Sherlock did not quite understand, but desperately needed. He had to fix this. Make it up to John in some way.

Perhaps finding a girl with whom he could be sure to make it past the second date. And then refraining from texting him during the dates. Intercourse tended to give John quite a boost.

Composing a profile for John's perfect match kept him occupied for the rest of the journey, and he didn't quite register John's pensive mood.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is close. Too close. John can feel his breath on his face. Burning hot and moist. He tries to close his eyes, but he can't. He is forced to stare into those impossibly pale mercury eyes. He can feel them drilling into his soul, extracting all his secrets. The trivial, painful and embarrassing secrets. All of them.

He is getting closer. John's eyes have a will of their own, they slide down to Sherlock's lips. Full and pale and impossibly well-shaped. And closer still.

The eyes again. So close that they are blocking out everything else. A heat is building in John's stomach, his breath catching in his throat.

A cry:

"Sher..." he was sitting up in bed, sweat pouring off his body, with his jaw clamped down tight, swallowing the rest of the word.

For a moment he just sat there, staring into the darkness, struggling to catch his breath. Then he slumped back down on his pillow.

What the fuck was that about?

Oh yeah, that!

He hadn't been able to go back to sleep. The dream had been stupid, absurd and very unsettling. A nightmare, really. But why?

He knew perfectly well that it hadn't been a proper kiss. It was just one more of Sherlock's clever disguises, using their bodies as props. Okay, so their lips touching might be considered kind of intimate, but, on the other hand, there had been nothing sensual about it. It was just a touch, like shaking hands. Well, not exactly like shaking hands, but...

At around four in the morning, John had given up, grabbed a book, made a pot of tea and settled down in his favourite chair.

But he didn't get much reading done.

The whole thing kept replaying in his mind. It hadn't been like in the dream. No intense stare. No heat. Not like that, anyway. It had all happened so fast. He hadn't seen it coming, and it had been more surprising and awkward, than anything else. And logical, he assumed – the only solution to the problem at hand. Trust Sherlock to solve it.

Like he solved everything else. John remembered his own excitement at the prospect of solving a case on his own. And especially the shoving-it-in-Sherlock's-face part. Childish. Stupid. Why couldn't he just accept that there were some things – a lot of things – that Sherlock was better at than him?

After all, the man was a genius.

So why did John feel the need to prove himself. Sherlock's brilliance shouldn't make him feel inferior. He should be proud that such an extraordinary human being had chosen him as his (only) friend.

But lately, John had started resenting Sherlock's genius somehow. Every time Sherlock had explained what, to him, seemed so obvious, John felt dense and slow. Though Sherlock rarely said anything of the sort, John always felt he was silently reproaching or even mocking him for not being able to make the same deductions. Like Sherlock was always just barely holding back an "Any idiot should be able to see that..."

John probably wasn't being fair. Sherlock hadn't called him an idiot lately. In fact, he very rarely had. Sometimes it just felt like it was implied in everything he said.

Being Sherlock's faithful sidekick was becoming very frustrating.

Especially with the either pitying or infuriatingly knowing looks he was getting from everyone. He didn't know which was worse.

The ones who felt sorry for him for having to put up with the freak, or the ones who thought that there was more going on between them that they were doing a pretty poor job of hiding.

Why was it that so many people automatically assumed they were a couple? They did have a kind of chemistry, and although there was nothing romantic or sexual about it, he could understand why some outsiders might perceive it as such.

But what about the people who knew them? People who knew Sherlock? Like that old school friend. What was his name? Sebastian? Probably. He had clearly read much more into Sherlock introducing John as his friend.

Well, at first John had considered it very likely that Sherlock was gay. Then he had assumed that he was not interested in anyone at all. And then there had been that whole Irene Adler thing.

But Sebastian seemed to know something. Something in Sherlock's past had let him assume that Sherlock's "friend" would really be something more. Or was he just surprised by the mere fact of Sherlock having a friend? Was John reading way too much into it?

He really was dense sometimes.

Like that time at Angelo's. Oh God. His toes still curled at the thought of it. He had just been trying to get to know a little bit more about his intriguing potential flatmate. Actually, he was trying to find out who exactly Mycroft was, but couldn't bring himself to ask directly. But, somehow, it had turned into something that even he couldn't deny, in hindsight, had sounded suspiciously like a pick up line. Sherlock had been very gracious about it, but John had never been quite sure if Sherlock believed his denials. And Angelo's insistence on John being Sherlock's date really hadn't helped.

Thinking back, John thought, that if the evening hadn't ended the way it did, that awkward moment might have been the end of the whole thing.

He would have been too embarrassed and have found another place to live, Sherlock would have found another flatmate or had managed without one (more likely), and they might never have seen each other again.

But a bond had been formed, and thrills and adrenalin had pushed that embarrassing blunder so far back, that John actually hadn't thought about it in ages.

Sherlock's door opened, jerking him out of his musings. He looked up to see the dishevelled detective, robed and tousled with eyes barely open shuffle towards the bathroom.

"Sleep well?"

Sherlock grunted before slamming the bathroom door, and John got up to make some more tea.

...

John had been staring at him all day. Not openly, but Sherlock couldn't help but notice. Whenever he looked directly at John, he'd be reading or looking at the dishes he was putting away, the television or just his own hands. But whenever Sherlock had his back turned, he could feel John's eyes on him. He had even caught it twice in reflective surfaces, before John had noticed and quickly looked away.

John was easier to read than most. Usually. He was so open and honest, his thoughts and feelings written right on his face for all to see. Well, for Sherlock to see anyway. But something was different. From the glimpses Sherlock had caught, and John's body language, breathing and perspiration, Sherlock knew that something was bothering him. But what?

He was tense, that was certain. The creases on his forehead indicated pain, but probably not physical. His breathing was shallow, at intervals interrupted by a sharp intake followed by a drawn out exhale, almost a sigh. His hands were fidgeting, and his eyes kept drifting from whatever he was looking at, when he wasn't staring at Sherlock.

This was infuriating. At first, the puzzle had been exiting. Something to keep him occupied on what promised to be an exceedingly dull day. But as the afternoon wore on, Sherlock was becoming frustrated. He could always tell exactly what John was thinking. Always. Just not now.

Was he missing some data? Had something happened that he wasn't aware of?

He supposed he could just ask, but that somehow felt like cheating. It might not be intentional on John's part, but here he had offered him a perfect mystery – a challenge. Sherlock was going to repay that gift by solving it, and, if possible, putting whatever was bothering John to rights.

Sherlock settled on the sofa. Lying on his back, legs crossed, his fingers steepled right under his chin – John called it his "thinking-pose" and had suggested someone should turn it into a statue to take over from The Thinker – he entered his mind palace to solve the problem that was John Watson.

Quickly, he wandered through the events of the last 24 hours, but, aside from establishing the fact that there was definitely a gap in the available information, this provided nothing useful that he did not already know.

So he went back further, looking for anything John might have said or done, that could give him any sort of insight into the current conundrum. There was confidential talks, friendly banter and a fair number of arguments, but nothing really seemed to apply to this situation. There had been looks – accusing, exasperated, openly admiring, furious, concerned and even affectionate – but nothing quite fit.

He ended up back at the very beginning. Well almost. That thrilling night of their first case together. When John had realised the position Sherlock had put himself in and resolved a situation that might very well (though Sherlock still found it unlikely) have had a fatal outcome for Sherlock, rather than the cabbie. Back then, John Watson had been unexplored territory to Sherlock. He knew a lot of facts about him, and even some of his psychological makeup, but the true core of the man was still unknown.

There had been the almost-insight at Angelo's, of course. For more than a moment, Sherlock had been certain, despite John's quick denials, that John had propositioned him. He had been surprised and a bit amused. It was a thing that only happened very rarely, but experience had taught him that the best way to deal with such advances was to turn people down, quickly, gently and definitely. And so he had dealt with John.

Afterwards, after John had saved his life, he had thought back on the incident. Had John saved him, not just because he (John, not Sherlock certainly) was a good and caring person, but perhaps also because his feelings towards his new flatmate was already evolving into something deeper than a mere acquaintance or even friendship?

The mere notion that someone, besides the besotted Molly, could have feelings like that for him had given him a strange fuzzy and warm feeling somewhere in his abdomen. It had been so curious. An actual physical feeling brought on by the mere contemplation of emotions. He had found it truly fascinating and had revelled in it longer than he'd usually spend on such an observation.

But, as he got to know John, he had dispelled the notion. John might be illogically fond of Sherlock as a friend, but his behaviour had made it quite obvious that his romantic tendencies were focused exclusively on the female half of the world's population.

But apart from that distinction, John really didn't seem too picky.

I was a strange thought for him to have, and a bit nasty, but it actually made him snort, bringing him out of his mind palace and back to the sofa, and John who, not quite fast enough, shifted his eyes back to the television.

It had worked. He didn't have a solution yet, but he had a theory. If his initial presumption about John had been correct, then the fake kiss might very well have meant more to John than intended. And that could explain a lot of his strange behaviour.

The logical way to proceed would be to test this. Two experiments then. One: get John the date he had been planning on anyway to see if he would actually connect with a woman if Sherlock gave him the room and opportunity. Two, and that one required some thought: create another situation of potential intimacy and gauge John's reactions.

First step: find John a suitable woman.

"Feel like going out?"

John was so startled by the question, that he accidentally knocked over his freshly filled cup of tea, resulting in a rather imaginative string of expletives.


	3. Chapter 3

This was bizarre, to say the least. Sherlock Holmes didn't go out! John had bullied him into joining him for a pint on a few occasions, but Sherlock had always either sulked or analysed people around them in his most carrying voice, until everyone was glaring and John just wanted to sink into the floor.

But here they were. At Sherlock's initiative. John had ordered a pint for both of them, but Sherlock, as could be expected, hadn't touched his. The pub was pretty crowded for a Thursday night, but John had managed to find them a table at the back.

Sherlock was observing the people around them but was not making any comments. Yet, John thought and settled into enjoying his beer while he still could.

What had brought this on? he wondered. Could it be a case? Sherlock often dragged him all over London and into unusual situations without bothering to explain anything. But it seemed unlikely that any case would require them to go for a pint in the nearest pub. An experiment perhaps, some kind of observation of how people behaved when inebriated. Possibly, but not likely.

What then?

John had been a bit out of sorts all day, due to the unsettling dream. He was quite used to nightmares about Afghanistan, but this was something new. All day, his mind had kept returning to it, and more than once his gaze had drifted to Sherlock, without him realising it. Sherlock had almost caught him a few times, and he dreaded to think what the detective had seen written on his face.

And now this...

Oh my god. Sherlock's taking him out for a drink was somehow connected with what happened the night before. The... well, might as well call it the kiss. Or rather The Kiss! But it wasn't a kiss. Sherlock had clearly only been driven by logic and necessity. And John had not done anything to indicate that he saw it as anything more.

Had he?

He had put his arms around Sherlock, but that had only been part of the disguise. He had been a bit breathless afterwards, but that was because he had been surprised and also afraid of discovery.

Oh... And he had spent most of the next day staring at Sherlock with a dreamy expression. He almost swore out loud at the realisation of how this must look.

Was this Sherlock's backwards way of taking him on a date? Certainly not. Just because Sherlock thought John was interested, didn't mean that there was anything to indicate that these (imagined) feelings were returned. So, a pity date then. A "I'm sorry if I've let you on, go ahead and get drunk"-date. Perfect!

Well. Might as well. John emptied his pint and gazed at Sherlock's, which was promptly nudged in his direction.

Sherlock was not looking at him but still intently observing people around him. Well, if he thought this was about letting John down easy, it was no wonder he didn't want to look at him. John picked up Sherlock's pint, but a hand on his wrist stopped him, before he could bring it to his lips.

"John," Sherlock said, his calm voice only just audible over the music. "Do you see those women over there?"

John looked in the direction Sherlock was indicating. Two women were sitting together at the end of the bar. They looked to be late twenties. One was fairly pretty, the other one – not so much.

The pretty one had shoulder length blonde hair and a straight thin nose, which was just a bit too long for her face. She wore quite a lot of makeup and sported a considerable cleavage. Her friend had long light brown hair and a round face with a weak chin.

"I have a theory, but I need you to help me test it." Sherlock continued.

John nodded. He didn't quite buy it, but was willing to go with it.

"Normally, a man looking for female company would approach the prettier of the two. Am I right?"

"Yeah, I guess so." John considered. He himself would definitely be more inclined to have a go at the blond.

"Well my theory is that not only will the plain one be easier to... pick up, but she will also prove to be much better company than her friend."

John considered. "And how do you suggest we test this?"

"Well. The first part is rather difficult. If we approach one girl each, there are too many variables. One of us can't approach one and then the other, because the latter's response would be affected by her being the second choice. But..." was he actually pausing for effect? "we could approach them together, neither of us focused on a particular girl, and see how they react."

"I suppose so..."

"The second part of my theory is much simpler. I doubt we'll need more than a ten-minute conversation to determine which one of them is better company."

This could actually be fun, John thought.

"Do you want to make this interesting?"

Sherlock looked at him, clearly not understanding.

"Make a bet?" John elaborated.

"I never bet," Sherlock looked infuriatingly superior, and sure enough: "It would be cheating."

John had finally taken a sip of his second pint, but Sherlock's remark made him snort and then very nearly spit the whole thing out in Sherlock's face, which would probably effectively had ended the evening.

He managed to gulp down the beer.

"Shall we then?"

Rather than approaching the girls directly, Sherlock suggested that they'd send them drinks. This was probably a better way of making contact than John's usual one-liners. This way, the girls were free to ignore them if they wanted to, instead of having their company forced upon them.

So they positioned themselves at the bar, at a respectful distance but close enough to make eye contact easily, and Sherlock asked the bartender to bring the girls whatever they wanted.

The drinks arrived, and the bartender pointed at Sherlock and John who nodded and smiled. The girls returned the smiles, whispered together, rather giggly it seemed, and then the blond girl waved them over. The whole thing had taken less than a minute. The next time he was going on the pull, he was definitely bringing Sherlock.

It only took five minutes to prove both parts of Sherlock's theory.

The blonde girl, Lesley clearly considered herself to be quite a catch and was used to playing hard to get. The other girl, Martha, was insecure but very friendly. She seemed genuinely flattered every time one of them addressed themselves directly to her, rather than to Lesley. John did not doubt that if he put the moves on her, she would be quite willing to leave with him.

Up close, she didn't really look too bad. She had very friendly eyes, and her face lit up every time she smiled or laughed, which she was doing quite a lot. Her friend, on the other hand, seemed to grow sulky, as it became apparent that neither man was going to lavish all their attention on her whilst ignoring Martha. She really did have too much makeup on, and her face had that sort of sickly dull colour that came with too many trips to the tanning salon.

She was also proving to be quite dull. She only talked about current TV shows and her job at a high-street shoe shop, whereas Martha turned out to be a lab technician, and they were soon immersed in an enthusiastic discussion on the merits of some new drug that was currently undergoing trial testing at some facility up north. John had recently read about it and was delighted to know that Martha could actually provide him with new information on the trials.

Lesley kept trying to insert herself into the conversation, growing louder and cruder with every drink she consumed.

Sherlock was mostly observing. But when Lesley announced that it was time to go, and made a grab for Martha's arm, he deftly pulled her away on the pretence of wanting to offer to get her a cab.

He escorted her outside, and John was quite happy to be left with Martha. He ordered another round.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock came back in, but he stayed by the door. He caught John's eye, gave him a knowing smile and a tiny nod, and left.

And suddenly everything clicked into place in John's intoxicated brain. This had been Sherlock's plan. The invitation. The experiment. It had all been about setting John up with a girl. Getting him laid, so he'd be out of Sherlock's hair.

He looked at Martha, who gave him one of her dazzling smiles. He really liked her, and he was pretty sure she was quite willing to go with him, should he suggest it. And part of him really wanted to. It had been quite a while.

But now it just didn't feel right. Martha was too sweet a girl to be used as a consolation price. no matter how misguided. Lesley, he could probably have shagged just for the hell of it. But this girl deserved better.

He did his best to make it clear that his need to leave was not in any way a rejection of her, but he could tell that he was hurting her. In the end, he got her number, promising to call the very next day, so that they could meet up and continue the discussion which he, and he apologised profusely, was forced to end, as a situation had come up - he had checked his phone pretending to have received an urgent text.

In the end he could only hope that she believed him, and making a mental note to definitely call her tomorrow, he headed home.

...

Sherlock had to admit, he was feeling pretty good about himself.

Martha was the perfect match for John, smart, sweet and with a good sense of humour. She might not be long-term material, but it could probably last a while.

He was also relieved that his little experiment had proven that, when it came to John's feelings, he had nothing to worry about. Now all he needed was a good case. Preferably a murder.

He went to his laptop but found that he had forgotten to plug it in. Shrugging he picked up John's instead and settled on the sofa. John had changed his password again, so Sherlock settled into one of his favourite pastimes: cracking John's password.

But after fifteen minutes, he was close to giving up. He had tried all the obvious variations on John's usual choices, but nothing worked. He'd tried upper and lower case variations, substituting numbers for letters and vice versa, reversing the order of old passwords, mixing them up and, though he hadn't really thought that would work, typed in several rather crude euphemisms.

Had the doctor finally outsmarted him? Well, good for him. But now Sherlock really wished he had plugged his own laptop in before taking John's. He considered trying to get the cable to reach the sofa, but last time he'd tried that, it hadn't gone too well.

He supposed he could go sit at the table, but it was just so... mundane.

Then the door opened, and he knew that he was not going to have time for the computer anyway.

John just stood there for a moment, glaring at him. He swayed a bit. Well, he had consumed a significant amount of alcohol that Sherlock had observed, and had probably had even more, after he left.

John steadied himself and stomped to the kitchen, opened the fridge, pushed the bag of toes to one side and dug out a beer. He opened it and downed half of it in one go, before returning to the living room, walking in a not-so-straight line to the sofa.

"Move over," he grumbled, and Sherlock quickly slid to one side, putting John's laptop on the small table. John gave it a quick glance and then sat down heavily, spilling some of his beer on the carpet but either not noticing or not caring.

They just sat there, with Sherlock trying to observe John without being too obvious about it, and John just staring into space. Sherlock finally couldn't take it anymore.

"You're home earlier than I expected."

John took his time, contemplating the bottle in his hand.

"Didn't work out," he slurred.

Was he lying? Sherlock thought he must be. The set-up had been too perfect for even John to mess it up. But he couldn't tell. Drunk John was proving to be even more enigmatic.

John emptied the bottle. Then he put it on the table, too close to the edge. It fell to the floor with a clunk, but John just shrugged and then stretched his arms above his head with a mighty groan.

He fumbled for the remote and turned on the television. Flicking through the channels, he found some mind-numbing game show and settled in to watch.

Sherlock considered his options. He could retreat to the table and get started on the research he had planned, he could go to bed (but he wasn't really tired), or he could stay and observe this side of John that he wasn't too familiar with.

Curiosity won, as always, and tugging his feet under him he turned so he was facing John.

"What went wrong?" he tried to sound sympathetic.

"Just didn't fancy me, I suppose," John was now slumped back, his head lulling a bit to one side.

"I'm sure she did. She was giving all the signs..." Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"Well, guess you read them wrong."

He must be lying. But why? Sherlock tried to gauge his level of intoxication. His speech was slurred, his sense of balance was clearly impaired, and he seemed short-tempered. All signs of a considerable level of inebriation. But it was hard to tell for certain, with so little basis for comparison.

If he could smell his breath, it might give an indication of his blood-alcohol level. Sherlock slid a bit closer. John didn't react, just stared blankly at the screen. A bit closer. John's eyelids were drooping. Was he falling asleep? Sherlock leaned closer still.

Suddenly, John's eyelids dropped completely, and his head lulled to the side. Towards Sherlock, who unexpectedly found his face only inches from John's. Well, that settled it. John's breath reeked of beer and something stronger (vodka?). Sherlock stared a the slack sleeping face for a moment. Then John began to snore softly and slid a little sideways on the sofa.

His head ended up on Sherlock's shoulder, his nose and mouth against the side of his neck, his breath scalding hot on his skin. Sherlock's first impulse was to try and slide away, easing John down on the sofa, but the second he moved, John made a whimpering sound and snuggled closer.

The warm fuzziness returned in full force. He knew John was asleep. And drunk. But there was just something so trusting and vulnerable about the way he was leaning into Sherlock, that he could not bear to leave. Instead, he put an arm around John's shoulder and, pulling him along, slowly eased onto his back, with John lying half beside him and half on top of him. He managed to pry the remote out of John's hand and turned the television off.

He would just lie here for a bit, until John had reach one of the deeper levels of sleep, and then he would slip out and retreat to his own bed.

...

John wasn't sure he could pull it off. Sherlock was very hard to fool.

John's only advantage, he supposed, was that Sherlock had rarely seen him drunk, and therefore wouldn't know exactly what to look for.

Truth be told, he was more than a little tipsy. Having slept so little the previous night, and not really had any substantial meals during the day, the beer had hit him pretty hard. He'd also finished Lesley's untouched drink after she left. Something sickly sweet with vodka in it.

But he was gonna have to convince Sherlock that he was a lot drunker for this to work.

Luckily he'd seen plenty of drunkenness, and it wasn't too hard to imitate, all things considered.

From the look Sherlock gave him when he started on the beer from the fridge, it was working.

Sherlock was actually making it all too easy. Soon after John had settled on the sofa, Sherlock started inching closer, no doubt trying to observe him, gathering information for future reference when dealing with a drunk John.

He waited, and then pretended to pass out.

It was perfect. If Sherlock had been any closer, he would have kissed him by default. Hearing Sherlock's surprised gasp nearly made him grin, and he quickly covered it with a light snore. Then he started leaning towards the detective and actually managed to place himself so that Sherlock would have to lift him off to get away.

Now came the interesting part. What would Sherlock do?

John had thought about this, as he had stomped back to the apartment. His first inclination had been to have it out right then and there. How dare Sherlock think that he could just pass him off to some random girl. Never mind that Sherlock's presumptions were way off. It was a callous and disrespectful thing to do to John. And to Martha.

But he doubted he could make Sherlock understand. So instead he'd considered ways of getting back at Sherlock, and this had popped into his mind.

If Sherlock thought John had feelings for him, any close physical contact was bound to make him uncomfortable. But his actions tonight also hinted that he felt guilty in a way, probably thinking it was The Kiss that had brought it on. So, the perfect revenge would be to get him in a position where he'd be torn about his own discomfort and his unwillingness to hurt John further, which John sincerely hoped that he felt.

And here they were. John could almost feel Sherlock's panic, as he tried to slip away. So John grunted and snuggled closer. He nearly chuckled when he felt Sherlock give in, and he almost forgave the man when he felt the tenderness with which he eased them both down onto the sofa.

He should really let him off the hook. It was just so comfortable lying with his head on Sherlock's chest, and that last beer had probably been too much. His head was all fuzzy and heavy, and he needed to rest it, just for a bit before he could bare to open his eyes.

...

A sharp knock on the door woke them both. For a moment, they were equally disorientated. Sherlock was lying on his back on the sofa, John still half on top of him. Sherlock's arm was around John's shoulder, John's hand resting on his chest. John's leg had somehow gotten entangled in Sherlock's, as well.

They stared at each other, shock mingling with embarrassment. And then the absurdity of the whole thing hit John like a sledgehammer, and he succumbed to giggles. Then Sherlock cracked too, and they just lay there laughing stupidly.

The knock sounded again, and John jerked up, instantly regretting it, as his head forcefully reminded him exactly what had led to him lying here in Sherlock's arms.

"Owwww," He bent over, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Sherlock disentangled himself and got up. He grabbed a bottle of water off the table, tossed it onto the sofa next to John and went to get the door.

The complete silence made John defy his headache and look up.

Mycroft was standing in the door, umbrella in hand, his eyes taking in the scene, expression completely blank. John looked at Sherlock, and once again, was overcome with laughter. The detective was truly a sight for sore eyes. His hair was standing straight up on one side, while lying flat on the other. His clothes were wrinkled, and his shirt twisted around his body. John doubted he looked any better himself. He certainly didn't feel it.

The two of them looked, quite correctly, like they just spent the night cuddling on the sofa. One could hardly fault Mycroft for jumping to conclusions.

The elder Holmes brother cleared his throat pointedly. "I have a case for you, dear brother. One that I think you're actually going to enjoy."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had to concede that Mycroft knew him pretty well. There was no way he could have turned down such a deliciously mysterious crime scene. But he fervently wished that it hadn't been so inconveniently situated in, of all places, Coventry.

The trip had been fairly uneventful. John, still hung over, had settled in for a nap as soon as they got on the train, his jumper bundled between his head and the window. He was snoring before they had even left the station.

Sherlock had intended to spend the trip going over the background information Mycroft had provided, but instead, his mind insisted on picking through the events of the previous night.

John had been in a perfect situation to engage in a physical (potentially romantic) relationship with an agreeable woman. But he had chosen not to. And what was perhaps more significant: he had lied to Sherlock about it.

Sherlock chided himself for not taking advantage of John's compromised condition when he came home to try and extract the truth from him, but the whole thing had caught him off guard.

John had been surprisingly drunk.

Or had he? John usually did not indulge. His aversion to intoxication stemmed equally from watching his sister's yearlong struggle and a need for control. Afraid of his own inner demons John very rarely let himself go. So why the sudden change in behaviour? What had been so different about that night, that John had lost his self control and resolve?

For the first time, Sherlock began to suspect that John might have exaggerated his condition. But why? And why hadn't Sherlock seen through it right away? Well, that one was easy. He had not been looking.

But why had John found it necessary to fake drunkenness? Had something happened between him and Martha? Something embarrassing that he wanted to cover up? Quite possibly, but what? They hadn't been alone for very long, judging by the time John came home. What could have happened?

He supposed he'd just have to ask John, when he was feeling better.

And then there was the other part. The... sleeping arrangement. Sherlock did not require much sleep, but tonight he had slept for almost nine hours in a position that should have been very uncomfortable. In fact, he had a rather annoying crick in the neck as proof. But still, he had drifted off and not woken even once during the night, when he could have slipped away saving them both a rather embarrassing awakening.

But it had not really been as mortifying as could have been expected. They had both seen it for what it was: a silly incident between friends, brought on by fatigue and alcohol. Absolutely nothing had happened during the night. They had just slept next to (on top of) each other.

The laugh they had shared had effectively defused any possible awkwardness and Mycroft's assumptions and innuendoes had only been a source of further mirth.

It was a relief really. The getting-John-a-date plan might not have worked, but their night on the sofa had been sufficient evidence that there was nothing between them but friendship. Surely something would have happened otherwise. Something awkward and messy.

Sherlock pushed that thought to the back of his head and turned his attention to the case they were travelling for.

The train rocked, and John's head lolled to the side, ending up, once again, on Sherlock's shoulder.

He considered shifting it back to the window, but then decided that it didn't really matter. It was probably better for John's neck this way.

As they pulled into the station, Sherlock gently shook John's shoulder.

"We've arrived. Time to wake up."

John was disoriented at first, and stumbled a bit, as they made their way to the platform. Mycroft had arranged rooms for them at a large downtown hotel, and they deposited their bags there, before going to the crime scene.

Coventry's old cathedral, or rather the ruin that had once been a cathedral had been roped off by the police. But as soon as Sherlock and John approached,they were rushed inside, clearly expected.

Sherlock looked around the ruins of the old Cathedral. Oh, this was a whole decade worth of Christmases rolled up in one. Leaving John to deal with the local law enforcement, Sherlock took his time to form his initial impression, the core from which his analysis would form.

His keen eye and dexterous mind took in all the information visible to the naked eye, analysed and catalogued it within the first 30 seconds, after which he moved on to a more in-depth examination of the specific details.

First there was the blood. Not much really, but plenty for Sherlock's purposes. There was a thin spray of tiny droplets along the wall directly opposite the entrance. The altitude pointed towards a severed femoral artery, while the pattern suggested that the victim had been staggering, all ready injured by the time the fatal wound was inflicted.

On the ground below, there was more blood, smeared in streaks by the feet of at least three different individuals, engaged in a desperate struggle. The one in the Armani shoes had been pitted against the two others - one of them in generic trainers, the other in military issue combat boots (bought at an army surplus; one size too large).

On one of the benches near the middle of the cathedral, a patch of hair had been caught in the head of a semi-loose screw. The hair was a mingle of strawberry blonde and grey: short, recently cut and washed in an expensive prescription shampoo. On the ground next to it were fragments of tainted glass. He would need a microscope to confirm that they were from a shattered lens of a pair of sunglasses.

He proceeded to examine the altar beneath the wooden cross. On one of the rough bricks, there was a bloody patch and tiny fragments of skin, where a human cheek had been ground against it. There were also some fibres caught on the stone. At the base of the altar was the fragment of a tooth. It appeared to be the incisor of an adult male, but further study was required.

All the signs of a violent murder was here. Except the one essential thing: There was no body. In its place there was a single photograph, smeared in blood and nailed to the back of the cross itself. It was this photograph that had set off the chain reaction of alarms that had, within 35 minutes of its discovery, brought the situation to Mycroft's attention. The reason why Sherlock was here.

It was a polaroid, showing three smiling men, all in their late fifties or early sixties. They were all dressed in expensive grey suits and toasting the camera with tall thin glasses of what was probably champagne. One side was torn, apparently to remove a fourth person. One of the men, tall and tanned with greying strawberry hair, had an arm around the missing person's shoulder. From the angle of his body, it was evident that this person was a lot smaller than him and most likely female.

Sherlock straightened up, letting the sounds and smells of the present wash over him once again. He located a forensics assistant and directed him on the samples he would need and then went over to John who was talking to a young detective off to one side. "You're kidding me! Three victims?"

"That we know of," the woman answered. The tests show that the blood, hair and skin are from three separate individuals. We haven't been able to identify any of them yet."

Sherlock walked over.

"One of them is a Swedish diplomat by the name of Sven Kjellberg. It's his hair on the bench. The blood, skin and tooth belongs to American lobbyist Simon Maxwell or Polish MP, Bratomil Nedza. At least one of them is dead."

All three were supposed to be in Birmingham for a conference. Kjellberg had last been seen going to his room the previous evening, and Maxwell had taken a cab from a nightclub at 2 a.m. But had neither had ever arrived back at his hotel. Nedza had gone for a walk in a local park in the afternoon. His two bodyguards had been found shot, this morning. But the local police need not know about this. In fact, Mycroft had made it quite clear that Sherlock should not volunteer more information than he absolutely needed to, to optimize their corporation. Sherlock had probably already shared more than strictly necessary, but Mycroft would probably expect it, or he would not have given Sherlock a direct order.

...

John would never tire of watching Sherlock at work. He was never more graceful than when he was caught up in the thrill of a new crime scene. John had long ago come to terms with Sherlock's apparent delight at gruesome crimes. He knew that, to Sherlock, they weren't the horrific tragedies that everyone else saw. They were puzzles, begging to be solved.

Sherlock wasn't blind to the human suffering. He just, quite correctly John supposed, did not see any need to invest his own emotions in it. He would function better, and thus ultimately help relieve the suffering, by bringing, if nothing else, closure, by staying aloof and focused on his work.

Sherlock's coat swished around him as he strode to the blood-spattered wall and then settled elegantly around him again, as he hunched down to examine the ground. John became aware that he was gawking in undisguised admiration, as a young female detective, with a bemused expression, cleared her throat.

She introduced herself and gave him a quick briefing. The blood had been seen by two young students, probably looking for a place to snog, at around 4 in the morning. They had notified the police, who had had the site secured and started documenting it by 5. A photograph had been found, and it had apparently meant something to the DI, because he had instantly pulled everyone from the scene and started making calls. By 6, they had been told to wait for "assistance from London".

"Is he really Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, looking at the detective crawling on the ground near one of the benches.

"You know of him?" John supposed he shouldn't be surprised.

"Yes, of course." She smiled. "Read about him online." Then her eyes widened. "Oh, but then you must be..." she actually blushed. "Oh, I'm such a fan."

John never really knew how to respond to this, so he just tried to smile humbly.

"Thank you."

She fumbled for something in her pocket. "I don't suppose..." she started and turned even more scarlet. Then she held out a pen and a notepad. "Could I get an autograph?"

This was a first. John felt a truly confusing mix of pride and embarrassment, as he signed the paper.

Then she looked at Sherlock.

"Do you suppose he..."

John snorted.

"Better not risk it."

After ten minutes, Sherlock came over and instantly rubbed his superior knowledge in the detective's face. Did he really have to do that? Made him look like such a prat.

Then Sherlock demanded to be given access to a laboratory and all samples taken from the crime scene, and then he, as an afterthought, sent John off to talk to the two kids who had discovered the blood.

It was over quickly. They had been drunk and hadn't noticed anything but the blood. The guy had panicked and wanted to run, but the girl had dialled 999. They had waited for the police, given testimony, and been told to go home.

He was barely out the door, when he got the first text from Sherlock.

We'll be going back tomorrow. Get tickets.

With the smallest of sighs, John headed for the station. He arranged for them to leave in the afternoon. No need to rush back to London; he was beginning to like this place.

Go to scene. Take pictures of blood on ground, third stone from the right below third window.

Cursing Sherlock under his breath, John headed back to the cathedral. He took several pictures, sent them to Sherlock and waited for the next order. None came, and eventually he decided to do some sightseeing. There were plenty buildings, monuments and shops to look at.

He had a rather pleasant meal at a small café, and then spent several hours browsing through book shops and looking for a birthday present for Harry. He even treated himself to a new scarf, simply because he liked the colour.

He was strolling down a particularly nice street, when it occurred to him why he was in such a pleasant mood. The case had effectively put an end to the strangeness of the last two days.

Sherlock's behaviour had returned to normal, or at least normal for Sherlock, and John hadn't had a single dream during his nap on the train. Come to think of it, he hadn't had a dream while they slept on the sofa either.

Whatever it was that had been bothering the both of them, had apparently gone away.

He chuckled to himself. It really was quite comical how they had woken up in each other's arms this morning. Not something friends normally did, but then again, their friendship was far from normal. They trusted each other completely – how else could they do the things they did on an almost daily basis? - taking risks whilst always confident that the other would have their back.

Being so comfortable together was probably just a logical extension of that trust.

Logical... the thought made him laugh out loud. He was really beginning to sound like Sherlock. Come to think of it, sometimes his thoughts actually took on Sherlock's voice, when he was trying to observe and analyse.

John's phone buzzed. A text from Sherlock:

Hungry?

John considered and then wrote:

Wouldn't say no to a bite

Sherlock's reply came so fast, that he must have already typed it, before receiving John's reply.

Small pizza place. East of Cathedral. Meet you there in 10

He asked a young couple for directions, and soon found the place.

He'd just finished scanning the menu, when Sherlock walked in, beaming with the satisfied smile that solving an interesting case always brought on.

"Mycroft's buying," he announced, as he seated himself, "So feel free to indulge."

John laughed and called the waiter over, to order a bottle of wine and the most expensive pizza they had. Sherlock grinned.

"Aren't you having any?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced at the menu and then ordered the same as John.

"Are you gonna eat it?" John asked as the waiter went away.

"Probably not," was the answer. They both looked out of the window, for a moment, then glanced back at each other, and the second their eyes met, they were both overcome with giggles. Everything was back to normal.

...

John had hung his jacket over the chair next to him. Sherlock noticed that the scarf half-covered by it was new. John rarely shopped for clothes, and Sherlock considered commenting on it. It looked to be of high quality, and the colours were good. Dark grey with thin strips of purple and silvery grey. He liked it.

As they waited for the food, he filled John in on the case, first explaining the background Mycroft had given him and then running through his own findings.

The three men had been brought to the Cathedral separately, but then been confronted with each other, supposedly as part of an attempt to make them surrender information or comply with some demand.

Kjellberg had been struck hard, which had made him stumble against the bench, smashing the sunglasses he'd had in his pocket. Judging from the force with which his hair had been pulled from his scalp, he would have been rendered unconscious either from the blow itself or from his head connecting with the bench.

Nedza had then engaged in hand to hand combat with their captors, while Maxwell was being restrained, pressed against the altar at the other end of the cathedral. One of Nedza's opponents had pulled a knife and mortally wounded Nedza by slicing his femoral artery. The lack of blood at the scene indicated that someone had immediately tried to stem the blood.

This indicated that all three men remaining alive was crucial to their captors' plan. It was however doubtful that he had survived, unless off course, there had been a trained doctor on hand.

Sometime during this, Maxwell had tried to fight off the person holding him, but had only managed to chip their tooth before being subdued.

The three men had then been taken from the cathedral and moved, either by a van or more than one car. They had presumably been taken to London. At this point, John interrupted:

"Why London?"

Usually Sherlock would have been annoyed by such an interruption, but John had been following his explanation with his usual awe at Sherlock's deductive skills, and he found it very easy to forgive him.

"Mycroft's information," he admitted, and went on to explain that the only connection between the three men, apart from them being at the Birmingham conference, was that they were all suspected by SIS, of having connections to an international, for lack of a better word, society of people with power and money that wanted more of both. Apex they called themselves – most likely an acronym. Most known members of Apex were based in London, so that would be the logical place to proceed.

Sherlock had actually eaten a bit of topping while talking. John had given it a good go, but could only manage to cram down two thirds of his pizza. Well, never mind. He wasn't paying for it. He had consumed almost half the bottle of wine. Sherlock only had water.

John, once again, marvelled at Sherlock's skills, but he was beginning to feel the effects of the previous night and was about to suggest they asked for the bill, when he noticed a change in Sherlock's demeanour. He was sitting just a little straighter, looking intently over John's shoulder.

"Sherlock...?" he started, but a slight shake of the detective's head made him stop.

"Do you see the man standing behind me?" Sherlock said, in a barely audible whisper. "A little to the left of the door – brown leather jacket."

John saw the man. He was tall with long dirty blond hair and tired looking eyes. He looked like he was waiting for someone to finish up so they could leave.

"Yes. I see him."

"He is a mercenary, based in London. His being here now can hardly be a coincidence."

"So, you think he's got something to do with the case."

"It's a distinct possibility," Sherlock said, still focused at a point over John's shoulder. John realised that there must be some sort of mirror behind him, in which Sherlock could see the man.

"What should we do?"

"For now, we just observe."

To pass the time and make their lingering look less conspicuous, John poured another glass of wine, keeping an eye on the man by the door. Then suddenly out of the blue, a thought struck him: He had promised to call Martha. Today! He got out his phone and found her number. The phone went straight to voice-mail. He really hated talking to machines.

"Um, hi. It's me, John. From the pub. Last night, you know. Anyways, promised I'd call about us getting together and... well, thing is... something's come up, and I seem to find myself in..."

"Down," Sherlock cried and without hesitation John let himself slide off his chair and under the table, where he was met by Sherlock. Above them they heard a gunshot and people startin to scream.

"His target was exiting the bathroom," Sherlock rattled off, a vacant look in his eyes as he analysed. "Someone short. He missed."

They heard the door slam, and they both looked up, seeing the back of the man disappear down the street.

They exchanged a quick glance and set off after him

The guy was fast and took advantage of his local knowledge. They very nearly lost him in the narrow streets, but then Sherlock spotted him. He pointed to the left.

"That way. Head him off. He's about to turn into a larger road, which he'll have trouble crossing due to the traffic. He'll probably head east, and if you're fast, you can block him." Without waiting for a response from John, Sherlock sprinted off in another direction and John turned left.

He was starting to feel the wine, which, on top of yesterday's consumption, had probably been a very bad idea. Running was certainly not making it better.

He could hear the traffic Sherlock had predicted and thought he must be getting close. He was out of breath, his stomach felt queasy and his head a bit wobbly, but he put on a final burst of speed, turning the corner and running straight into something tall and grey.

He lost balance and as the back of his head hit the pavement he had a blurred impression of dark curls and grey eyes. For a moment, the world faded out, and then there was a swirling bright mist before him, that slowly sorted itself into Sherlock's concerned features.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock saw John too late to stop. They crashed into each other and fell. As Sherlock landed on top of him he registered out of the corner of his eye that the man in the brown leather jacket was jumping into a waiting car, which immediately sped away.

He cursed under his breath, and then looked down at John, getting ready to chide him for his clumsiness. He was lying directly on top of him, their noses almost touching. Sherlock registered that this was the third time in less than 48 hours that their faces had been so close, and how strange it was, seeing John's face like this.

John's eyes seemed strange. The pupils were slightly too big, and they seemed unfocused. His mouth was open, slack. Sherlock was starting to get really concerned, when John suddenly let out a long, strained groan.

"John! Are you alright?"

John winced and muttered something that Sherlock didn't catch.

He leaned in closer putting his ear to John's lips. "What? I didn't catch...?"

"Get off my chest," John growled, and then added. "And be very, very careful with your left knee."

It was a mild concussion, the doctor declared. John could be discharged, but should be observed for the next 24 hours.

They went back to the hotel, and though it was only eight o'clock, John declared that he needed to get some sleep. While he was getting ready in the bathroom, Sherlock got his laptop from his own room and settled in a large armchair across from John's bed. John seemed a bit surprised to see him there, when he emerged in his pyjamas, but didn't comment.

He climbed into bed, rolled over and went almost straight to sleep.

Sherlock had only just logged on, when his phone buzzed.

Naturally, it was Mycroft. Sherlock had already informed him of his findings earlier, so this would have to be about the night's incident.

He went into the hall, so as not to disturb John. First Mycroft wanted to know exactly why John had been by A&E. Sherlock had been extremely vague, playing flustered and concerned friend when explaining to the doctor how John had gotten hurt, so there was nothing useful, for Mycroft, on record – Sherlock told him to get lost. Then Mycroft informed him, that the local police wanted a word with them about the shooting at the pizza place (Sherlock was very disinclined to go) and that the police had John's phone, which had been found under the table, and they could pick it up in the morning, after they had answered some questions. Sherlock was pretty sure that last part was actually Mycroft's doing.

He waited until Mycroft was mid-sentence, and then hung up. As he sneaked back into the room, he registered that John's breathing had become erratic and that he was twitching underneath the cover. Concerned, Sherlock tiptoed to the bed and leant in close. John's eyes were twitching, and his lips were working, forming soundless words. Sherlock was pretty adept at lip-reading, but he could make out nothing clear. It was probably just random anyway. There seemed to be a pattern, though. Two syllables reoccurred together at intervals. A sibilant consonant followed by a front vowel (possibly an [e], but more likely an [ø]), then there was an unmistakeable [l] a near-back vowel and finally a plosive with the tongue or glottis

Sherlock mimicked the motions of John's lips, trying different variations, forming the sounds in his mind. Then his eyes widened in shock, and he recoiled.

Sherlock sat in the dark, his reluctant mind wrestling with the evidence. The undeniable facts were: one, he had kissed John; two, the kiss had had some kind of emotional effect on John; three, John had turned down an available woman; four, they had spent the previous night sleeping in each other's arms; 5. John was muttering Sherlock's name in his sleep.

Conclusions? He had a few, but his mind seemed loathe to dwell on any of them. Once again, he withdrew into his mind palace.

John, on their first cab ride, marvelling at Sherlock's brilliance when he'd been expecting rejection. John flustered across the table at Angelo's. John and Sherlock out of breath after a chase (many chases), laughing and supporting each other. John looking at him with genuine concern in his eyes. John holding his breath, as their lips touched. John's dilated pupils after the kiss. John's head on his chest. John's head on his shoulder. John's lips forming Sherlock's name. John's lips...

Sherlock reached out and pulled all of these glimpses together, and an astonishing picture unfurled before him. For a long while all he could do was stare in fascination, and then, undetectably, thought shifted into dream, and Sherlock's head slumped back against the high back of the chair.

...

They are running through Soho, in pursuit of an evasive shadow. John is out of breath, but Sherlock grabs his hand and pulls him along. They turn a corner and the ground disappears in front of them. They are tumbling through the dark, their only sense of direction each other, pulled together as if creating their own gravity. Their limbs entwine and John gasps for air.

His back is against the wall. Enemies are crowding in on him. Nameless thugs and villains all seeking on his blood. His death. And then, through the throng, he spots a gleam of grey and a lock of brown. And there he is, shoving bodies aside as he strides towards John an look of intention in his eyes. He raises his hands to John's cheeks and leans in. John can feel his breath on his lips.

John is lying flat on his back. Sherlock is above him, a hand on each side of his head. Their eyes meet and Sherlock smiles. John reaches up, grabbing two fistfuls of curly brown. He pulls.

Hands, legs, skin, lips, eyes. Swirling, sliding. Shallow quick breaths. Sighs, moans, whispers. Heat!

John woke up to an embarrassingly familiar sticky wetness. For a second he had no clue where he was. Then he remembered. Reluctantly, he turned his head towards the chair by the window. Sherlock was there, slumped down, with head tilted back. He was snoring gently.

As silently as possible, John slipped out of the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. Safe behind the locked door, he could finally breathe. The dreams replayed themselves at triple speed in his sleep- and concussion-muddled mind.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

He went to the sink, grasping it for support, hesitantly meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Shit! Good thing Sherlock was asleep for this. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide, and his hair bordering on the obscene.

He gingerly took of his clothes and inspected the damage. The pants were a wet mess, but luckily only a few tiny stains marred the pyjamas. He needed a shower, but feared it would wake up Sherlock, so he settled on wiping himself with a wet cloth. All his clean clothes was in his bag, by the bed, so he put on the pyjamas, crumpling the stained pants in his hand (the one that would be away from Sherlock, when he went back to the bed), took at deep steadying breath and opened the door.

Sherlock was still asleep. As silently as possible, John went back to the bed. Luckily his bag was on the far side. He crouched down, unzipping it just enough to squeeze in the damming evidence, and then crawled into bed. He pulled up the covers and turned on his side.

And looked across the room straight into Sherlock's piercing eyes.

His expression was unreadable. John felt he was being vivisected.

"Hi," he managed.

Sherlock nodded. John only barely suppressed the urge to squirm under the intense scrutiny.

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. "How are you feeling?"

Oh, yes. The concussion.

"A bit sore, and very tired. But no nausea."

"Good."

Silence.

"Sorry for waking you."

"It's not a problem."

More silence. Why wouldn't Sherlock stop staring at him? Observation was fine, but this was making John damn uncomfortable.

As if sensing this, Sherlock closed his eyes, stretched and yawned. When he looked back at John, the spell was broken. John noticed how he was holding his head a little slanted. His neck was probably stiff from sleeping sitting up. Come to think of it, this was his second night in a row with him sleeping in an uncomfortable position. Both times because of John. Guilt rushed through him.

"Sherlock. You can't be comfortable like that. I'm fine. You can go to your own room and get some proper sleep."

Sherlock shook his head. "You have a concussion. You shouldn't be alone."

"No, but you can't sleep like that."

"Well, I don't really have an option."

"There is plenty of room in the bed," John blurted, his mind a step behind yelling in panic for him to stop, stop, stop!

Both Sherlock's eyebrows went up. In shock? Amusement? Disgust?

"I mean..." John stammered, feeling his cheeks burn. "It's a double bed. I only need one side." To emphasise his point, he moved closer to the edge. Away from Sherlock.

Sherlock's smile was infuriatingly unreadable.

"I suppose so." He didn't get up.

"I don't mind," John ventured, thinking In for a penny... "I just feel terrible about you sleeping in that chair because of me."

"I don't mind," Sherlock echoed him, but he got up, removed his shoes and went to the side of the bed.

To give him some privacy, John rolled over, turning his back. He could hear rustling, a zip and then the slide of fabric against skin. In his mind, the picture of Sherlock sliding down his trousers were technicolour vivid.

Then he felt Sherlock's weight on the bed, shifting as he lay down and pulled up the covers.

"Goodnight," John muttered, and shut his eyes tight, willing himself to sleep, though he knew it was very doubtful that he would succeed any time soon.

...

This was an interesting development. Only an hour after he had deduced that their relationship had somehow, without their knowledge, evolved into something beyond friendship, he found himself lying in a bed next to John Watson.

He knew, of course, that he was there solely for practical reasons: he needed at more comfortable place to sleep than the chair. John needed to relieve his guilty conscience at inconveniencing Sherlock.

But Sherlock also knew that neither of these was the actual reason why he had accepted John's impulsive offer to share the bed.

His true motive, as so many times before, had been curiosity.

What would it be like lying next to John? Of course, they had already spent a night close together on the sofa, but this was different. Last night, they had been fully dressed and John had passed out from alcohol. It had been an accident that neither of them had intended (he supposed). But now he was here by invitation, dressed only in a tee-shirt and pants, with John in his pyjamas. They weren't touching, not even very close, but still, there was something very intimate about sharing this bed.

John, his back to Sherlock, was pretending to sleep, but not doing a very good job. His body was too tense, his breathing too fast.

Sherlock wished that he could open the back of John's skull and take a direct and accurate look at what was going on inside. The best he could do was guess work, though of course Sherlock's guesses were usually more qualified than most people's actual knowledge.

John could not be unaware of what was happening. His behaviour clearly showed that he too had noticed the change between them. Sherlock suspected that John, being more attuned to emotions, had been aware, before he himself had realised it. It would certainly explain some of John's odd behaviour.

Now that it was settled, that they were feeling an attraction to each other, the next great mystery presented itself: what would this lead to?

Sherlock supposed the whole thing was primarily chemical. Pheromones and adrenalin could account for a lot of what was going on. Familiarity and shared experiences, especially the ones that centred on danger and thrill, had inevitably brought them to this. The next logical step would be to attempt some form of actual consensual intimacy, to see how this stimulus would affect them.

The "kiss" the other night didn't really qualify, as the intent behind it had been purely practical. To get a proper reading, it would have to be something affectionate. And not just a kiss or caress on its own. It had to be under the right circumstances. As the culmination of a shared moment.

Sherlock had never experienced true attraction himself. He'd been curious and had even engaged in a few sexual encounters, but he had always been detached, observing his partner's as well as his own physical reactions. But this, he supposed was different. It was not about being physically intimate with someone, it was about being emotionally intimate with John. A whole new unexplored territory. This could be a thrilling adventure.

Or a devastating disaster.

In the end, they had both succumbed to sleep, John before Sherlock. When they awoke, it was getting close to noon.

Sherlock woke up first, turned over and realised that, at some point, while they were sleeping, John had turned towards him and moved closer. Then he noticed that he, himself, was also lying a lot nearer the middle of the bed, than when he had fallen asleep.

How intriguing. Their subconscious was clearly picking up on the attraction. Now there was only a few inches between their faces.

John's eyelids twitched. He was waking up.

Sherlock considered his options, and decided to feign sleep. This was the best way he could offer John some privacy, giving him a chance to come to terms with their proximity before having to face Sherlock. So he closed his eyes and settled into a slower breathing pattern.

He heard John smack his lips sleepily and let out a muffled gasp. Sherlock barely suppressed a smile. John's head moved slightly against the pillow, and then there was silence.

A long silence. Sherlock finally grew impatient and opened his eyes, making sure to simulate the unfocused sleepiness of awakening.

John's head was resting on his arm, still only inches from Sherlock's. He was looking at him, unabashed, lips stretched in a tender smile.

"Good morning," he said, his voice soft and warm.

Sherlock found he had not been quite prepared for the tenderness radiating towards him, and his voice caught slightly in his throat when he reciprocated.

"Sleep all right?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, not quite trusting his voice after its small betrayal.

"Good"

Sherlock's mind raced. Was this a good time? They were so close. He had given John a fair chance to retreat, while he was pretending to sleep, but instead, John had used the time to observe Sherlock up close. He met his eyes without reservation, and he was openly displaying affection with his smile, body language and tone of voice.

Sherlock hesitated. Granted, this was a very tantalizing situation. A whole new experience that would probably lead to great insights into human nature and motivation. And also, it was something he wanted in itself.

But if they did this now, everything would change. For better or for worse. No matter how this played out, they could not go back to what they had. In a flash, Sherlock saw what life would be like without John, and his mind staggered. He could lose him. It was a risk. The gravest risk he had probably ever faced.

But was it worth it? Certainly not. No experiences could ever be worth that. But the part of him that wanted to kiss John, just because it was John, whispered in the back of his mind: This is worth it. Even if it means the world will crumple and time will end, doing this, this one thing will be worth it.

Sherlock felt himself shifting slightly, the distance between them reducing at an almost indistinguishable pace. He looked into John's eyes. They had widened, the pupils like bottomless pits, drawing him in.

Closer.

He looked at John's lip and saw them part ever so slightly.

Closer.

He was holding his breath.

Closer.

His head felt light. Dizzy.

Closer

His phone rang.

...

While Sherlock was abusing Mycroft, John slipped out of the bed and took refuge in the bathroom, bringing his bag along.

He turned on the shower and dug out clean clothes and toiletries. As the warm water washed over him, he finally found the courage to think.

That had been quite an awakening. Sherlock sleeping so close, his face so peaceful and serene. John had felt warm waves of undeniable tenderness towards the beautiful lunatic wash through his body and had decided then there, that wherever this was leading, he was ready to follow. It was quite daunting how easily such a momentous decision had occurred. No doubt or deliberation, just certainty that this was what he wanted. What was right.

And then Sherlock woke, and after his initial confusion, it had been quite clear that he had reached the same conclusion. And then Mycroft happened.

But that was what Mycroft did, wasn't it? Always interfering in their lives, at the most inopportune moments, always causing disarray and discontent. Trying to get John to spy on Sherlock, throwing Irene Adler at them. It was like he was doing his best to disrupt their friendship (relationship?)

Had this been it? Their one chance at something more? Had it come and gone?

John would not accept that. Could not believe it. It was no fluke that had let to this moment. It had been a long time coming, and it would not just go away.

Not even if he'd wanted it to. And that, he most definitely did not.

Once he was cleaned up and dressed, he ventured back into the room. Sherlock had put on his clothes from the night before, somehow managing to make it look fresh off the hanger. His hair was still rumpled, but otherwise he looked ready to take on the world.

He flashed John a brilliant smile, when passing him on his way to the bathroom. For a second, they were very close, and John caught a whiff of that unique Sherlock smell that he'd known intimately for so long, but had never noticed until this very moment.

He wanted to reach out, to touch Sherlock. To stop him. But instead he just smiled back. While Sherlock was in the bathroom, John rearranged his things, making sure the evidence of last nights dreams was tucked away safely at the very bottom of the bag, wrapped in his pyjamas. Though still embarrassed by the incident, it also brought a smile to his face. The dreams had been so... intense.

He then settled down with his laptop, checking his blog (no new comments) and the news. He found mentions of the shooting on two local news sites, but no specific details. One of the articles mentioned that the police wanted two men, who had been seen leaving the scene, in for questioning. John couldn't suppress a chuckle at the description of Sherlock as tall, handsome and posh, while he himself was only mentioned as being "shorter".

Well, from what he had caught from Sherlock's side of the conversation with Mycroft, they had to check in with the police anyway.

It was over quickly. The officer assigned to question them was no match for Sherlock, and her attempts at getting any useful information was drowned in his insistence that she be the one who informed them. There wasn't much to tell, though. The shooter had been identified, as someone the police already knew well, but they had not been able to track him down. No one had been hurt, and no one could say for sure who the intended victim had been. The whole thing was rather odd, as this particular man was usually known for being quite a marksman.

Sherlock then bullied her into handing over John's phone without checking with her superior, which she was evidently under orders to do, and they were out the door.

The police station was only a ten-minute walk from the hotel, and the time was spent in comfortable silence, the air between them electric with anticipation of the inevitable.

Their train for London would leave in two hours, so they decided to go pack before finding some lunch. But John had barely entered his room before he heard Sherlock's voice from the hall:

"Not again!"

John rushed to Sherlock's room, and then froze. Right there, in Sherlock's bed, fast asleep, lay a dead woman.


	6. Chapter 6

Interlude

(This interlude takes place some time prior to the rest of the story)

As frantic tumbles goes, it had been good. She was pretty certain Sherlock hadn't actually been a virgin, but calling him an experienced lover would definitely be stretching the truth.

But he was a fast learner, and Irene had taught him well.

It had been quite a night. At one point, she had actually believed that this was it. They'd caught her, and she could see no escape from the blade. And then he had come swooping in, and there'd been fighting and running and hiding. And then, caught up in adrenaline and gratitude, she had given in and jumped him.

He was caught off guard, but it didn't take him long to respond in kind, and it had barely begun, before it was over. But she knew how to get a man back on his feet, so to speak, and the second time, and the third, had been more paced and frankly quite enjoyable. He hadn't begged for mercy, not even once, but seeing as he'd just saved her life, she'd leave him that shred of dignity.

And now they were lying entwined on a stack of old blankets in an abandoned building, somewhere in a strange and dangerous city. Sherlock's coat barely covered them, but the night was warm and she was feeling fulfilled and languid. Sherlock was snoring gently beside her. She rummaged in the coat's pockets and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes, with a battered lighter stuck in one corner. She sniffed one. Dry and stale. He'd been carrying these around for a long time. Perhaps since her first "death"? She'd like to think so.

She lit it and grimaced at the taste. Well, it would have to do.

She gave up half way through and tossed the stump into a corner. Then she turned to Sherlock and cuddled a bit closer. He moved slightly and murmured something but didn't wake.

She dosed off, but was soon woken up by the sound of Sherlock's voice. Her first thought was that they had been found and she jerked upright. But then she saw that Sherlock was still asleep (postcoital exhaustion, bless him) and was talking in his sleep.

Intrigued, she leaned down, trying to catch the muttered words. At first, it was just nonsense. Meaningless sounds. But then something in his voice and face changed, and Irene saw, to her utter astonishment, a tear trickling from the corner of his eye.

Now it was just the same syllable, over and over again. Barely more than a whisper. She leaned closer, almost pressing her ear to his lip. Then she understood.

Pulling back, she carefully wiped the tear from his cheek and then gently stroked his hair.

"You poor, poor boy," she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was fuming. What was she doing here? And, more importantly, why now?

Granted, he had found her very fascinating at the time they were battling over her camera phone, and had felt compelled to save her, when he had learned of her capture.

And after that night, he had even harboured a certain... fondness... for her. But he had moved on, and here in Coventry, with John, she was probably the last person, bar Moriarty himself, that he wanted to see.

He registered that John was standing behind him. He must have heard his outburst (shameful loss of self control really, but he had been blindsided). John's breath signalled shock and tension.

Of course, Sherlock realised. John had actually believed The Woman dead. Again.

Deciding on some, somewhat belated, damage control, Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder and gently led him into the room, so he could close the door.

At the sound of the latch, Irene woke up. She stretched and smiled at them.

"Hello boys..."

John gaped at her – Sherlock just glared.

"How..." John began. "How did... you were..."

It was really quite adorable how speech deserted him at times of extreme stress Sherlock thought, thinking back to a certain street corner, not so long ago.

"Sherlock honey," Irene said, voice dripping with mock reproach. "You mean you haven't told the dear doctor about my heroic rescuer."

John turned to Sherlock, a bewildered plea in his eyes.

"Oh, it was quite the thrilling tale," Irene continued. "An innocent damsel in distress..."

Sherlock could not suppress a scoff at this. Irene shot him a dirty look.

"A damsel in distress and the bold hero in disguise, saving her whilst on the brink of death."

Irene sat up, letting the cover slide off. She was wearing one of Sherlock's shirts and nothing else it seemed.

John blushed and looked away. Sherlock kept his eyes focused on her face. Nothing there he hadn't seen before, after all. Irene made note of this, with one of her crooked smiles.

"And now, I'm afraid I'll be needing said hero's assistance again." Irene said, stretching again, the shirt being pulled up higher, revealing even more to anyone who would have cared to look.

The facts clicked into place.

"You were the target at the pizza place last night," he concluded. "The mercenary was not connected to our case, but was merely trying to collect on the reward, not knowing that you were presumed dead by those who had offered said reward."

"Very good, Sherlock," Irene clapped her hands.

Sherlock knew that this was not the truth. It was merely what Irene wanted them to believe. If the mercenary had actually been after her, she would be dead by now. The most probable explanation was that the mercenary was working for Irene and had fired a deliberate miss, to convince someone that Irene's life was in danger. And that someone was probably himself.

But why? And how had she known he'd be in Coventry? It was too much of a coincidence. There seemed to be a very high probability that she was somehow involved in this case. He resisted his instinct, which was to remove her bodily from his room and toss her suitcase, along with the clothes she had discarded all over his room, out the window. It would definitely be worth losing one of his favourite shirts. But curiosity, once again, got the better of him. If he wanted to know the why and how, he had to keep her around a little longer.

"And now you are here, hoping we can protect you," he concluded. "Well, we're not staying here which means we have to get an extra ticket to London."

Irene's eyes flickered at this statement. Oh, so she wasn't too keen on going back to London. Or else she wanted him to believe that she wasn't, which meant that doing so would be furthering her cause. Well be that as it may, they were going home.

"Right," John sounded extremely uncomfortable. "I'll go and arrange the ticket, shall I?"

Sherlock's mind flicked through the possibilities: if John went to get the ticket, Sherlock would be left alone with Irene. He had no doubt he could withstand any advances should she make any, but he knew that John would assume something was going on while he was gone. It was already evident in the defeated look in his eyes, and the slump of his shoulders, that he expected this. But if he himself went to get the ticket, it would mean leaving John alone with her, and he did not like that idea either. They couldn't let Irene go, which only left one option.

"We'll both go," he turned to Irene. "Meanwhile, you can get yourself ready." He indicated the scattered clothing. "We'll be leaving in an hour."

Irene actually pouted as they left.

During the short walk to the train station, the silence was anything but amiable, with unspoken questions and unbearable uncertainty charging the air between them.

...

John wasn't quite sure how it happened, but somehow he ended up sitting next to Irene on the train, with Sherlock across the aisle and several rows behind them.

That woman just had a way of shaping things around her to suit her purpose he supposed, but why her purpose would involve sitting next to John, he couldn't fathom.

Seeing her and Sherlock confront each other had confirmed something he had long suspected but never been able to (or wanted to) confirm. They had been intimate. Probably at the night of her rescue, which was why John, who had believed her dead at the time, had not been able to piece it together.

Against his better judgement he tried to picture how it had happened, but it inevitably turned into one of those horrible so-called romantic novels one of his former girlfriends had been so fond of. Sherlock charging in, rescuing her and then sweeping her off her feet.

Somehow, he could not see that happening. He was pretty sure that she'd been doing most of the sweeping.

He decided to abandon this train of thought, since it was making him miserable. Instead, he resolved to observe the countryside rushing past the windows.

Irene's elbow dug into his ribs. She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially:

"So are you and he...?"

It only took at second for John to get her point.

"Certainly not," he exclaimed, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.

"Oh," Irene almost looked disappointed. "I just assumed, since he spend the night in your room..."

"I had a concussion," John snapped. "He was keeping an eye on me."

"Oh," she smiled mischievously. "And such a keen eye he has."

John was about to answer, when he realised that it was pointless. First of all, he doubted very much that he stood a chance against The Woman. Secondly, she was actually hitting pretty close to the truth. Wasn't she?

So he resigned himself to studying the view once again.

After some minutes of silence, Irene stretched, yawned and settled down for a nap, head on John's shoulder.

This train ride was taking forever.

Back at Baker Street, John ordered take-out for the three of them, and they then settled down for a night in front of the telly. John and Sherlock had each taken a chair, leaving the sofa to Irene and she was taking full advantage, lounging seductively. She kept up an almost constant commentary of the programmes they were watching, but unlike Sherlock, who would take the shows' logic apart, she was somehow managing to turn the most innocent occurrences into lewd innuendoes.

John suspected that she was well aware of the battle that was going on.

Reluctant to leave Sherlock alone in her presence, John was fighting fatigue to stay awake. Sherlock seemed equally determined to outlast John, which he took as a bad sign. Sherlock seemed to harbour less than friendly feelings towards Irene, but John still had an irrational fear that the two would jump each other's bones the moment he left the room. And even though he knew he had no real claim to caring whether they did so or not, he could not bear the thought of Sherlock with her, after what had very nearly happened this morning.

From the looks Sherlock was shooting him, he was getting very annoyed with John's insistence on chaperoning. It finally came to a point when Irene, having long ago kicked off her shoes, pulled off her stockings, stuck her feet out suggestively in Sherlock's direction and made a remark about how great a foot rub would feel at the moment.

Sherlock stood up with a jerk.

"John, all things considered, don't you think you should be getting some rest?"

John answered nonchalantly:

"I slept late this morning. Not remotely tired yet." The effect was somewhat marred by the need to suppress a yawn halfway through.

"Suit yourself."

And to John's surprise, Sherlock stomped off to his bedroom, slamming the door.

Irene's feet gravitated towards John, her toes wiggling invitingly. "Well, I guess that leaves you..."

She made puppydog eyes at him and looked so absolutely ludicrous that he couldn't suppress a bark of laughter. She pretended to be offended, but John suspected that she had achieved exactly the effect she'd been aiming for.

"What do you say, John? Come on, I won't bite." She pulled her legs up underneath her, making room for him on the sofa. "Much."

For a moment, John considered going up to bed, but how could he be sure that Sherlock wasn't listening from his room, waiting for just that?

Resigning to a long vigil, John shrugged and moved onto the sofa.

As soon as he was seated, Irene was stretching her legs across his lap. Almost by reflex, he picked up one of her feet and started massaging it.

An old film was starting, and for some reason Irene stopped her commentary. Had it been for Sherlock's benefit?

John liked this film and was soon caught up in it, still absentmindedly massaging Irene's foot. After a while, she prodded him with her toes, indicating he should move on to the other foot. He complied and they sat in silence. He found that she was quite tolerable company, when she kept her mouth shot (and her clothes on).

Half way through the film, she spoke up again.

"Is it really true that you and he have never..." she searched for words. "Fooled around?" She finished, suddenly becoming a teenage girl sharing confidentialities at a sleepover. John snorted at the transformation. It really wasn't any of her business, and he regretted that he had responded the first time. But then again, no reason to be defensive about something that wasn't anything yet.

"No."

"Oh," again she sounded disappointed. But then she brightened up. "Good, then I don't have to feel guilty about..."

Her modest blushing was utterly unconvincing. But John was seething inside. One thing was knowing, another thing being told outright.

"No," he snapped.

She looked at him. And then her face fell.

"Oh, but... " She sat up and put a sympathetic hand on his arm. "But you do want to..."

John doubted that any response of his would be taken as anything but a confirmation so he stayed silent, eyes on the screen.

"You poor thing."

She stroked his arm, leaning a bit closer.

"But maybe it's for the best, you know. I don't think he could ever deserve someone as special as you."

John knew what she was doing. He knew that it was all an act. And not even a really good one.

But he also knew that right now, she was gloating that she had taken what he hadn't had. No matter what happened, she would always be the one who got there first. Something snapped in John. It didn't make sense, but he knew exactly what he wanted. Right now.

...

Sherlock didn't sleep well that night. He'd gotten much more sleep the last 48 hours than he usually did, and had really only fled to his bedroom to get away from that infuriating woman. He had been hoping that John would leave them alone. He did not doubt that Irene would put her moves on, once she got him alone, and he had hoped he could exploit the situation, getting some information from her.

But John had doggedly refused to leave. Sherlock wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps John had felt some need to protect Sherlock from her. She had, after all, betrayed and hurt him in the past. The possibility filled Sherlock with a warm soft feeling. While he was studying this particular variation of the emotion, he somehow drifted off to a fitful and troubled sleep. Two times he woke up, believing he had heard strange noises, but could discern nothing but the familiar sounds of London.

When he woke the third time, dawn was breaking outside. He resolved to go wake up Irene, get the information out of her and have her out the door before John woke up. So he put on his clothes (no robe and pyjamas for this particular encounter) and exited his bedroom.

The sofa was empty. She must have left during the night. Well, that was all right. He could leave this one mystery unsolved if it meant getting rid of her unwelcome presence. He felt unaccountably cheery and decided to try something new. He was going to make John breakfast.

But as he moved about the kitchen, trying to locate the necessary equipment, dodging his most recent experiment, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Something very wrong. He scanned the living room. There, by the door to the stairs lay Irene's coat, abandoned on the floor.

She was still here? Where?

Sherlock's stomach dropped. He staggered and had to sit down. It couldn't be... John' wouldn't have...

But then again, why not? They weren't together. Nothing had happened between them. Yet.

John was a hot blooded male and Irene was... well, The Woman.

Sherlock couldn't really blame John.

He hid his head in his hands.

Then it struck him.

He could blame Irene. From her hints and innuendoes the previous night, he had quickly surmised that she suspected the potential brewing between John and himself. She knew! And that was probably the very reason for her actions. Sensing Sherlock's rejection, she had opted for hurting him and had gone for the one thing that truly mattered.

John must have been helpless against her.

Sherlock was always in control of his own actions. He never let sentiment take over. Never.

But sitting in their kitchen, head in hands, he made a very informed and conscious decision to make an exception.

Just for Irene.

...

John is drowning. The salt presses on his eyes, the water floods his mouth, threatening to force its way down his throat into his lungs. The blackness is closing in. Then, in the gloom, he sees a shadow. It is getting closer and suddenly Sherlock is in front of him, cheeks extended with air. They grab each other, desperately. Sherlock pulls him in close, their lips meet and John breathes...

Irene is lying next to him, naked under the covers. Her hair has come loose and is draped over his pillow. She is fast asleep. He looks down at her. Objectively he knows that she is a very beautiful woman, desirable and alluring. But he's not feeling it. She just looks tired and worn.

He plays back the evening in his mind. It was physically pleasing, but somehow very unfulfilling. She must be losing her touch. Or maybe John was immune to her tricks. He supposed he had a natural antidote in Sherlock.

He could easily have turned her crude advances down. But the images of her and Sherlock that kept flooding his mind had made him want this.

Want her. Like she had had him.

And now he felt like shit.

He really just wanted to kick her out. Out of his bed, out of Baker Street, and out of their lives.

But his sense of honour would not allow it. No matter his reasons and his feelings towards her, he could not kick a woman out, right after sleeping with her. It was not what a good man did. And John couldn't not be a good man.

So he lay awake for hours hoping against hope that this would somehow all have gone away by morning.

John had almost managed to dose off, when the door to his bedroom slammed open. Sherlock stomped across the room and grabbed Irene by the wrist, dragging her from the bed. She screamed with mingled shock and indignation, and struck at Sherlock with her free hand. He spun the naked woman around, clamped his arm around her upper body, pinning her arms to her sides and carried her, kicking and screaming down the stairs.

John scrambled to the door, just in time to see Sherlock pushing Irene, now wrapped in nothing but her coat out the front door. He then, without looking at John, stomped up the stairs and disappeared into the living room. John heard Irene's voice from the street. "How dare you... You big, stupid..." Her voice cut off.

John rushed to the window and looked down. Irene was standing below him, looking up, not at him but at Sherlock, who was throwing her suitcase out of the living room window. A second later, her shoes followed. John turned to look out the dress and stockings crumpled on his floor. Should he...? He suppressed a grin, deciding that he'd better not.

The window below him slammed shut and Irene stood fuming, before looking up to see John.

"Hey!" she called, but John withdrew, closing the window on her outraged yells, and made his way to the door. He hurried down the stairs to find Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room, his hair an insane mess, his eyes smouldering like a nuclear reactor on the brink of a meltdown, and his breath coming in ragged gasps. It was like entering the lair of an incensed dragon, and he would not have been surprised if Sherlock had breathed fire.

John recoiled, and Sherlock deflated. He hid his face in his hands, his body sagging, and something like a sob escaped him.

John hurried to him, putting one hand on his shoulder, the other round his neck.

"Sherlock..." he managed, but had no idea where to go from there.

Sherlock lowered his hands but kept his face down. John moved closer, using his shorter stature to get into Sherlock's line of sight, willing him to look at him. But Sherlock's eyes were closed.

"Sherlock... " he tried again. "What was that about?" Though he thought, no he hoped, that he already knew.

Sherlock took in a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was steady and calm, completely incongruous with the pained expression on his face.

"That woman is toxic. You shouldn't go anywhere near her."

John felt indignation mixed with amusement building inside of him.

"I shouldn't? You were the one who brought her here, offering shelter. And don't believe for a second I don't know about you two."

Sherlock eyes opened and locked on John's.

"Then why did you do it?"

John wanted to look away, but found that he couldn't.

"She came on to me," he started feebly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John searched his mind, desperately for anything that could pass for the truth. Anything but the actual truth. "I was curious, okay? She's sort of a professional. Supposed to be one of the best shags in London. Did you really expect me to pass up on that, when she offered?"

Sherlock smiled wryly and, for a second, John's eyes darted to his mouth.

He looked up at Sherlock, and the moment their eyes met, he could see something shift in the other man's gaze. The tenderness mixed with something feral. Hunger.

Suddenly John was afraid. It had felt so right lying there in the hotel room so safe and warm. But this moment, the smell of woman all over him, Sherlock so wanton and possessive. This was terrifying.

Keep talking. Distract him, John's mind offered, panicking, stumbling.

"Also, she was the one woman who managed to break through your shell. So I thought she must really be something spec..." his voice trailed off. He didn't even have to see Sherlock's raised eyebrow to know that was as good as a confession. Sherlock's lips curled up in a knowing smile.

John's heart was thrashing like a beast in a cage. He tried to swallow, but there was a lump in his throat. As it so often did, when he was stressed, his tongue darted out, wetting his lips.

At the movement, Sherlock looked down at John's mouth, an open and curious expression spreading across his features, as if observing or contemplating some grand new discovery.

Desire flared in John, dispelling all fears. The panic was gone; the irrational fear of the unknown had come and gone. He wanted this. Wanted it to happen.

Could this really be it? The momentous point of no return. Or had they passed that a long while ago and this was just the culmination? John felt himself surrendering to the inevitable.

It was as if he was observing himself from the outside, Sherlock's voice in his mind commenting: "Look at him. All the tell-tale signs are there. His pupils are dilated and his breathing is becoming shallow and fast. Now he's stealing himself, leaning in..."

And then the spell was broken. Sherlock stared at him like a deer caught in headlights, and then turned and fled.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had never been so ashamed of himself. Actually, Sherlock had hardly ever been ashamed, considering that social norms and other people's expectations did not apply to him.

But now he was positively mortified.

He, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, detached genius, had lost control. And even worse: he had allowed himself to loose control. He had wanted it, chosen it.

And it had felt so good. All the frustration and doubt of the last few days, and all the insecurities had been put into that one glorious surrender to his most basic instincts.

He had always prided himself on being above the flesh – above sentiment and instincts. A being of pure intellect and logic, with his body and chemistry being merely transport for the mind, that was his true essence.

But this morning, he had been a savage primate. A cro-magnon alpha male, charging in to claim possession and displace the competition. He might as well have knocked John over the head with a club and dragged him to his cave.

But even more, he was ashamed of the way he had panicked and fled. The moment had been there. Again. It had been so obvious and so right. He had seen the conflict in John, and then the resolve, the choice. And he had wanted it to happen. Had wanted it so badly, that it still ached in his chest.

But the adrenalin from his struggle with Irene, and the anger towards her, and himself, had still been coursing through his body, and he had felt overwhelmed. He knew that everything was about to change, and he couldn't face it.

He desperately desired that change, but he was also terrified. Terrified of not being able to rise to the challenge. Not being able to give John what he wanted, what he deserved, what he needed. For a dazzling moment, he had seen only John and the promise of what could be, and then, in a flash he had realised how narrow the path was, and how easy it would be to stumble and send them both tumbling into the abyss.

Sherlock knew what he was. Sociopath was just a label he used to keep stupidity at arm's length, and served as a convenient excuse for behaviour he could not be bothered to change. He was selfish, arrogant and impulsive. He was, as so many people had told him over the years, a complete prick. Even John had, when pushed to his limits, called him something along those lines.

John was something very unique. He was the one person in the world able to deal with Sherlock. He could actually, most of the time, tolerate him. He had become his friend. And now there was an undeniable attraction between them, and an urge to move beyond friendship and become more. But Sherlock knew, beyond doubt, that he did not have it in him to be a … what exactly? A partner?Boyfriend? Lover?

He did not want this to be a merely physical relationship, and neither did John, as far as he could tell. But he had never had anything that went beyond. Had never wanted it before now. He could not be caring and attentive all of the time. He would be impatient, rude and demanding. And John would get angry and hurt. And then everything would be lost.

London was waking up around him. Shops opening, traffic increasing and more and more people in the bustling streets. Sherlock realised that his body was getting cold. He had stormed out in just the clothes he had been wearing. No coat, no money, and no phone.

Amusing, really, how the trappings of modern society had become a necessity even to him, who was above and beyond most conventions of said society. But there are some things that you couldn't do without.

But he couldn't go home. Not after the way he had left John, so full of hopes and questions. What would he say? He was the one who had brought them to the brink, and now he would have to turn back. To reject John. To hurt him. He couldn't face it. Not yet.

But where could he go? Where did people go, when home was too painful? To friends or family he supposed. But his only friend was the one person he could not face right now. And the thought of seeking refuge at Mycroft's estate was so ludicrous that it actually made him laugh out loud making several passersby stare.

Then it struck him. He was on a case. He hadn't thought about it for more than 24 hours, but now was the time to get back on track. It would get his mind off the other situation, it would serve as a valid excuse for staying away from Baker Street, and there were still so many unanswered questions. He needed access to a laboratory and computer. He turned a corner abruptly, heading for St Barts. It was Sunday. Molly would probably not be there.

By five o'clock, he had found a lot answers and just as many new questions.

The three men were definitely all connected to Apex, but there was no other obvious connection between them. Why had they been singled out for kidnapping?

Why had they been brought to Coventry? There was no logistical advantage to this, as far as he could tell. This indicated that the site had been chosen for symbolic or subjective reasons. He had made a list of Coventry's historical and cultural significance, and narrowed it down to a few likely points. Unless, of course, it was something personal, in which case Sherlock had very little change of discovering it, at this point in the investigation.

He had finally reached the conclusion that the perpetrators' intentions had been to send some kind of message, but that the plan had been derailed by Nedza's resistance and resultant injury. So whatever had been meant to happen had not. This made it all the more difficult and therefore intriguing.

He had considered contacting Mycroft, requesting more information, of the kind Mycroft supposedly had in abundance, regarding the three victims, but he suspected his brother would be very reluctant to divulge any details beyond what he had. The scarcity of the initial information from Mycroft was, in itself, very informative and, utilizing some of his basic technical skills, he had hacked into SIS files, regarding the three men, only to realise that there was one thing that they all had in common: Mycroft.

Over the course of the last three years, all three had, separately been foiled by Mycroft or his minions in their work for Apex. This was could not be coincidence. But having Mycroft thus directly linked to the case complicated things insufferably.

He would be met by resistance wherever his investigation led him, by the great bureaucratic Chinese box that was Mycroft's empire. Despite his reluctance to ever abandon a mystery unsolved, Sherlock felt sorely tempted to drop the whole thing, there and then. But that would mean focusing on other things...

Preparing himself for the inevitable phone call, (he did not even entertain the hope that him, not having his own phone at hand, would keep his brother from reaching him), Sherlock ventured into the vast labyrinth of heavily protected data of the realm of Mycroft.

He was surprised, and more than a little smug, that it took Mycroft almost 25 minutes to realise what he was up to, locate him, and have a confused orderly hunt him down with a mobile, and the resulting conversation gave all kinds of delicious opportunities to goad and abuse Mycroft. When Sherlock finally informed him, quite correctly, that he needed the information, if he was going to continue his investigations, Mycroft had finally conceded and granted him a medium level temporary access, but not before extracting a solemn vow that Sherlock would not attempt to go beyond these set limitations. Mycroft really was rather gullible at times.

He had skirted through the databases and reports, making mental copies of everything not relevant to this particular case but potentially useful at a later date, for future cases, or just to embarrass Mycroft.

Finally a picture seemed to be forming. But there was no way of confirming his assumptions, before the next move was made. And he was now certain there would be a next move. It was nice to have something to look forward to.

And now, he could not put it off any longer. It was time to go home.

The moment he opened the door, he knew John wasn't there. He should be relieved, being granted this reprieve. But he just felt sad and more than a little nervous. He had after all left John under the worst possible circumstances. John was no doubt feeling hurt. And quite possible resentful. Where could he be?

Sherlock rifled through the mental file marked "John", but none of his previous experiences with John gave him any clues as to how John would react in such a situation. The other times he had known John to be rejected, it had been by short-term girlfriends, and usually Sherlock was, at least part of, the reason. In those cases, John would mope about the flat for a while until either taking his frustration out on Sherlock over some particularly messy experiment or callous remark, or being swept up in a new case.

But where did John go, when he was upset with Sherlock? Sherlock had almost given up trying to deduce where John could be when he realised the obvious.

He could just call him!

His phone was in the bedroom, but the moment he picked it up, he realised that John had already beaten him to it. 15 missed calls! 2 from Mycroft, 4 from Lestrade, and the rest from John. There was also a text from John:

Going out. Let me know when you see this.

It had been sent less than an hour ago.

His first impulse was to call, but still somewhat dreading the inevitable conversation, he opted for texting:

Forgot my phone. Home now.

As an afterthought he added:

Where are you?

It was nearly five minutes before John's answer came.

At the pub. Don't wait up.

Don't wait up. A simple phrase, one John had used many times before, but now Sherlock recoiled from the unexpected sting of those words. For a long while, he just stood there, letting the sense of loss wash over him. With those three words, John had let him know that their new-found closeness was lost. And perhaps more. He was telling Sherlock to back off, that it was none of his business where John was and what he was doing.

Sherlock threw himself on the bed, feeling absolutely miserable. He had no one to blame but himself. He had led John on, practically seduced him, and then tossed him aside. If John never trusted him again, he would not blame him.

But he could not accept it. Not without at least trying. He had to explain his reasons to John. Had to make him understand. Apologise.

But he would have to chose his words with care, if he was going to set this right. It would be difficult, but it could be done. It had to.

Rehearsing what he would say over and over in his mind, Sherlock changed into a fresh suit, tamed his hair, grabbed his coat and rushed back onto the street, this time with both a destination and a purpose.

"The pub" could of course be any number of places. It was not as if neither he nor John had a regular haunt. But he figured the logical place to start would be the place they had gone to together, three nights ago. He could hardly believe that it had only been three nights. So much had changed in those few days.

Steeling himself for what was to come, he walked up to the door. And then he froze. Through the glass, he could clearly see John, sitting by the bar.

With Martha.

...

Though John, for once, thought he understood perfectly what had been going on inside Sherlock's head, it didn't make him feel any less rejected. He couldn't really blame Sherlock for panicking. He had very nearly done so himself, and he supposed that Sherlock was a lot less experienced at these kind of things.

But Sherlock had clearly just been in a jealous rage over John. There could be no denying these feelings any more. And still Sherlock could not, or would not, take that final step. Did he not trust John? Or was it himself that he didn't trust? Why was it so hard for him to let go? John wanted to scream out his frustration. To hit something. Or someone.

He knew that his need to lash out was also fuelled by his self-loathing for giving into Irene Adler. How could he have been so stupid? He more than suspected that Sherlock's doubts had been at least partially caused by this. Was it all his fault? Had he ruined it, before it had even begun? And for what?

John ended up taking a very long shower, emerging feeling no less filthy.

He spent the better part of the day pacing the flat, dimly aware that his thoughts and feelings were making very little sense, shifting and twisting into more and more self-contradictory knots of blame and regret. But, damn it! It just wasn't fair! How had this happened. Three days ago everything had been fine. And now, his whole world was one big disastrous mess.

And where was Sherlock? He had stormed out, and though John had tried calling him more times than he cared to admit, he couldn't reach him. What was he doing? Was he as miserable as John? Or had he (even worse) moved on and was already busying himself with his work? They were after all, though it had for a while slipped his mind completely, on a case.

In the end he collapsed on the sofa, and being exhausted by the storm raging inside him, as well as the night's exertions, he was soon asleep.

The sound of his phone woke him up at 4.15. Expecting it to finally be Sherlock, he answered it without checking the display.

"Where have you been? I've been so..."

"Eh... John?" It was a woman's voice, and it took him just a little too long to place it.

"Martha!" he schooled his voice into something he hoped sounded pleasantly surprised.

She had wanted to meet, and still feeling guilty about how he had left her, John had found it impossible to turn her down. Shortly after arriving at the pub, John had been pleasantly reminded why he had been so set against using this girl for Sherlock's twisted purposes. She really was great company. And it was such a relief talking to someone normal for once. Someone in no way connected to the disaster that had been his life for the last couple of days.

But they had only barely gotten comfortable, when Sherlock decided to give his first life sign since storming out this morning. Callously, John chose to ignore the phone. But when Martha excused herself a few minutes later, he couldn't resist. He had to know if Sherlock was all right?

Left the phone at home? At first ,John was relieved that nothing had happened. Then he felt a hot flood of anger welling up inside him. Sherlock must have know John would be worried. He could not believe that Sherlock had spent his entire day out of reach of an available phone. He had never had a problem borrowing other people's phones to call or even text. Why had he not bothered to let John know that he was all right?

He really was an arrogant, insensitive, self-centred git.

Martha must have sensed his changed mood, because when she returned she looked positively alarmed at the sight of him.

"John?" her voice was filled with concern. "Are you alright? Has something happened? Was it that text?"

She glanced at his phone.

"Look, if you have to go, I understand. There is obviously something important going on in your life, and I won't take it personally." She did however have a rather defeated air about her.

"Nothing important, whatsoever." John assured her, composing a quick reply, before demonstratively turning off his phone.

Still embarrassed about his actions the night before, John took it no further than a fairly innocent goodnight kiss, having gotten Martha a cab and arranging to meet the coming weekend.

When he came home, Sherlock's bedroom door was closed, and he supposed he must have gone to bed. He considered knocking, but couldn't quite work up the courage.

John knew that they, eventually, would have to talk about what had happened, but he didn't have it in him to broach the subject tonight. Tomorrow it would, he tried convincing himself, be easier.

...

Sherlock heard John coming home, but he stayed in his room, door closed, pretending to sleep. He heard John moving about the living room, then coming into the kitchen, pausing a long time at Sherlock's door. Was he listening? Was he debating whether to knock, or perhaps even enter?

Sherlock didn't know which of these he was hoping for. John had come home a lot sooner than he had feared, but had still been gone a painfully long time.

John just stood there for a very long time. All Sherlock could hear was his breathing, and that didn't give him nearly enough clues to discern anything other than that John was clearly also listening. He could speculate about John's state of mind, but it would only be guessing, and Sherlock didn't do guessing.

After what felt like an eternity, John sighed once and walked away. Sherlock could hear him in the bathroom, getting ready for bed and then finally disappearing up the stairs. Sherlock drew a shuddering breath of mingled relief and regret. Was this how it would be now? Avoiding each other? Sherlock knew that, if they didn't talk this thing out now, it would fester between them, and all would be lost. That would be the worst possible outcome. Driving John away by refusing to risk their friendship on a hopeless dream.

Sherlock pulled himself together. He would go to John now, explain himself and beg for John's forgiveness and understanding. No matter what John had done, with Irene, with Martha, it was none of Sherlock's business, and he had no right to feel anything about it, except happiness for his friend.

He had reached the top of the stairs, hand outstretched to knock on John's door, when he hesitated.

Even though he had resolved not to get involved with John beyond their current friendship, it did not change how he felt. Seeing him with Irene and with Martha had hurt. It had hurt so bad, that he could still feel the ache in his chest and stomach. As John's friend he would have to watch John work his way through the endless line of casual girlfriends. Or even worse, John would find someone, maybe Martha, with whom he would be struck that special bond. And Sherlock would lose him anyway.

It was the worst conundrum he had ever faced. If he followed his desires, he would risk driving John away, if he regained his friendship he would suffer and eventually lose him to someone else. And if he did nothing, everything would be lost. Right here, right now.

Maybe that would be for the best. Getting it over with, so he could go grieve and perhaps seek some form of oblivion, until the pain eventually dulled to something bearable. Getting the inevitable over with, as quickly as possible, was definitely the most logical solution. But he couldn't bear the thought of giving up John. Not now, not ever.

Settling on a doomed, painful friendship was certainly the least attractive of the three.

That only left one possibility. The one he had been trying to flee from since this morning. To go for it, and gain whatever joy he could while it lasted. Maybe then he would be strong enough to survive the unavoidable heartbreak. But he doubted it.

But still. Of the possible paths, this was the only one, he could actually endure contemplating. So, he would give it one more attempt. If only he hadn't been such an utter coward this morning, if he had accepted the risk – things would have been so much easier. It had been theirs for the taking. All he would have had to do was let it happen.

Now, he would probably have to work for it. Not that he would mind. Striving to regain John's affection was possibly the most desirable labour he could imagine. He could only hope that John was still open to the possibility.

He had not realised how long he had been hesitating beyond John's door, before he heard the sound of gentle snoring on the other side. John was asleep. Waking him up would not be a good start. But now the decision was made, Sherlock could wait until morning. As quietly as possible he made his way back downstairs.


	9. Chapter 9

When John made his way downstairs the next morning, it was with the grim determination of a soldier emerging from the trenches for the final push. They were gonna settle this. Now!

No matter how awkward, he and Sherlock had to find a way to put words to this thing, whatever it was, that had been happening between them since The Kiss.

It was not gonna be pleasant. It would possibly do irreparable damage to their friendship, but things could not go on the way they had. It would tear them both apart.

Sherlock was in the kitchen making tea. This was more than a little unusual, but John decided not to comment. Instead he went to the table and sat down, observing Sherlock as he worked. He was dressed in dark trousers and a button down shirt. This was also unusual, since Sherlock rarely got out of his robe, unless they had somewhere to go or were expecting clients, and even then he sometimes didn't bother.

But all things considered, he supposed it was only to be expected, Sherlock not quite himself. He was probably as nervous as John about what had to happen.

Sherlock had not turned around, when John had entered the kitchen, but merely indicated with a slight nod that he was aware of his presence.

Now, however, two mugs of tea in his hands, he turned to John, a brilliant, if somewhat shy smile on his face.

"Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?"

This caught John slightly off guard, but he managed to answer:

"Yes, fine. How about you?"

"Quite well, thank you."

Still smiling, Sherlock handed him the mug and sat down opposite him.

"Did you have fun at the pub?" Sherlock enquired.

So, he wanted small talk first. It was fine with John, if it helped Sherlock relax. And he wasn't exactly anxious to get to the real issue, himself.

"Sure," he mumbled, as he blew on the steaming tea.

Sherlock looked like he wanted to ask something more and then changed his mind. He still had that oddly cheery smile on his face, though it looked more than a little forced. Oh God. This was gonna be hell.

"Look, Sherlock..." John began, but Sherlock jumped up and went to the fridge.

"You want some breakfast?" he asked, as he searched the shelves, though John knew perfectly well they were devoid of anything edible.

"No, I'm fine," he snapped, his patience starting to wear a little thin. He hurriedly added: "Thank you."

Sherlock leaned against the fridge, almost posing. Then he came back to the table and, as he sat down, he pulled his chair a little closer to John's. John steeled himself for the inevitable 'We have to talk,' but instead, Sherlock put his hand on John's arm.

"John," he said, his voice deep and smooth. "Have I ever told you how glad I am that you decided to move in with me?"

John had been prepared for anything but this. What was going on?

Sherlock leaned a little closer. "I really mean it. I don't know what I would do without you half the time."

John almost gasped. Was Sherlock coming on to him? Had to be. Only explanation for his outrageous behaviour. John couldn't believe the nerve of the man. How could he keep changing like that? John's head was spinning with the effort of trying to make some sense of all this.

Sherlock inched closer, his thumb sliding lazily up and down John' arm. He looked intently at John, trying to catch his eyes.

John almost laughed. This was clearly not something Sherlock had done before, and he almost, very nearly, took pity on him.

But no! This was not gonna happen. Not now. Not this way.

After the hell he had put him through, John was not gonna let him get away with this.

So he looked Sherlock straight in the eye and, ice in every word, said. "Well, half the time, I don't know what to do with you."

Sherlock physically recoiled from the words. It was like something shattered in his eyes, their usual mercurial intensity turning flat and dull.

John almost cracked at this. The urge to fling himself into Sherlock's arms, apologising and reassuring him, was almost irresistible. But the rejection and disregard of the previous day was still too painful. He could not forgive Sherlock. Not yet.

...

This was the biggest miscalculation Sherlock had ever made, and he had no one to blame but himself. John had not given the slightest hint that he had been prepared to pick up from where Sherlock had cut this off. In fact, he had been distant and apprehensive ever since he came downstairs. But Sherlock had been too caught up in his own plans, his thrill at the decision he had made, to see it.

And now he had, if possible, antagonised John even further. Could he possibly be more imbecilic?

Sherlock fled the room, seeking the sanctuary of his bedroom.

Once again, he found himself face down on his bed, lamenting his chances of ever regaining a tolerable relationship with John.

When his phone buzzed it felt like it had been hours, days spend in misery, alone. In fact it had been little more than twenty minutes.

He fumbled for the phone and without lifting his head, he answered, his voice muffled by the pillow beneath him: "What?"

Two minutes later, he was in the living room pulling on his coat. John was nowhere in sight, so he yelled, hoping he'd be in his room.

"John, the victims have turned up. I'm heading there. Texting you directions."

And then, he was out the door.

It took John almost thirty minutes to show up at the scene, and when he did, he was sulking.

Sherlock had been busy. There was so much happening here, all at once, that he felt like a kid in a candy store.

The three Coventry Victims had indeed been found. A lot the worse for wear, one might say. He had barely laid eyes on Nedza's body before confirming that the man had, in fact, died four days ago from a severed femoral artery. Maxwell and Kjellberg, however, had been alive no more than three hours ago. It also seemed that they had been killed before the scene had been... arranged.

It was an empty warehouse, and someone had taken great care to stage it just right.

At one end of the vast empty space, Nedza was hanging, rope around his neck.

Near the middle, Maxwell was lying on the concrete, hands tied behind his back, with several bullet holes peppering his torso. At the furthest end, an old office had been remodelled into what could only be described as a gas-chamber. Through the glass, Kjellberg could be seen, tied to a chair.

All three men had black cloth hoods covering their head.

By the time John arrived, Sherlock had worked his way through the building, managed to piss off no less than seven of Lestrade's men, including Anderson – twice – and had a pretty solid notion of what was the intent behind this, for lack of a better word, scenography.

John did not meet his eyes, but went straight to Lestrade. Sherlock could see them talking, heads together, but could not hear them. So, pretending to be examining some invisible trail on the ground, he moved closer.

...

John had seriously considered not going. Sherlock's storming out, expecting him to follow like an obedient little puppy-dog, had almost been the last straw. But then again. Why wouldn't Sherlock expect that? That's what John did. What he'd always done. No matter how infuriating Sherlock behaved, no matter how unreasonable. When a case beckoned the genius, John was always there to assist and admire.

So, in the end, he had given in, and here he was. But he was not happy about it.

Sherlock was flitting about in his usual manner, everyone else standing back apprehensively. He could tell from the glares that Sherlock had indeed been his usual charmless self, so instead of approaching him, John went to Lestrade. He vaguely registered that there was something very familiar about the building, but his mind didn't dwell on it.

He was getting the details about the scene, when he noticed Sherlock inching closer on the pretence of examining some, probably non-existent, clue.

John sighed, knowing what was coming. It was time for Sherlock to show off.

But to his surprise Sherlock did not launch into a lecture about how this thing was obviously transparent and how stupid they all were for not realising. Instead he just said:

"I have everything I need now. Your guys can start cleaning up."

He beckoned to John, like he would to a servant, John thought, and started walking away.

"Wait," Lestrade called. "You haven't given us anything to work with here."

Sherlock stopped, but didn't turn.

"You don't need to concern yourself; it will all be taken care of."

Lestrade looked to John, obviously perplexed. John decided it was time for him to step in.

"Sherlock!" his voice was loud and commanding. It was, quite literally the captain speaking. It was the voice he knew even Sherlock couldn't disobey. "Start talking!"

But this time, Sherlock wasn't playing along, he turned and strode back to John, not stopping until he was well within John's personal space. He was clearly counting on his height and the proximity to intimidate.

"You don't get to tell me what to do!" he hissed.

John didn't even flinch, and managed to keep his dignity, as he had to crane his neck to stare back at Sherlock. "And you don't get to be an insufferable prick!"

"How dare you?" Sherlock grabbed the front of John's jacket with one hand, pulling upwards and making him stand on this toes.

"Oh, I dare..." was John's reply, as he grabbed Sherlock's wrist, squeezing it, trying to force him to let go.

Their eyes were locked, sparks flying. Then they heard someone clearing their throat and the connection broke. They looked around.

Anderson was blushing, shuffling his feet and looking everywhere but at the two men. Donovan was staring at them, the hand over her mouth not hiding her bemused grin. Lestrade shuffled closer, also avoiding their eyes.

"Please. Boys," he murmured. "Get a room."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock could still feel his cheeks glowing, when the cab pulled up in front of 221b Baker Street. The second Lestrade had spoken, Sherlock had realised how obvious they were. Even Anderson had seen the new spark between them. And it had been glorious. The heat and intensity of the thing. John so strong and so angry. And so incredibly close. If they had not been interrupted who knows what would have happened. Sherlock's felt his cheeks burning hotter, and not just with embarrassment.

John was sitting next to him, his body tense and his expression blank. What was he thinking? Had he felt it too, or was he still too angry? Sherlock wanted to reach out, to pull him close and convince him, one way or another, that despite his own stupidity, despite everything, this was right. For both of them.

But he couldn't. Not now. The things he had learned at the warehouse had changed everything.

He had to keep his distance to John; anything else would be unfair. And he had to prepare for what was coming. And most importantly, he had to make sure John knew absolutely nothing about what was going to happen.

When John had gone up to his room, Sherlock called Mycroft. His brother was more than a little surprised, when he asked to be picked up. They needed to talk.

When he came home three hours later, he went straight to his room and did something he hadn't done since he moved in: he locked his door.

He emptied his pockets out on the bed and set about examining the equipment he'd brought home.

The gun he doubted he would get to keep, but it would serve as a distraction from what he was really hiding. The small transmitter was so tiny, that if it had not been in the small plastic container, it would have been lost in the folds of the sheets. Mycroft had made sure that he knew how to attach it securely, and they had debated where best to hide it.

Sherlock placed it between two of his toes. It was small enough that it wouldn't bother him much, and besides, he doubted he'd be walking much.

Now it was only a question of when and where.

He could not do much about the 'when'. But he was determined that the 'where' would be anywhere but here. The single most important thing right now was to keep John out of the way.

He could not go anywhere that would be out of character, or he would arouse suspicion. But at the same time, he could not go anywhere with too many people. In the end, he settled on returning to the warehouse, where he could roam the surrounding area, pretending to look for clues.

It happened sooner than he had expected. He heard gravel crunch behind him, and then a hand covered his mouth, as a needle entered his arm.

...

Sherlock was gone again. John had no idea where he was or when he had left.

When they came home from the warehouse, John had immediately sought refuge in his room, needing time to deal with this new development.

It was one thing admitting to himself that he had these new feelings for Sherlock, and realising that he felt it too. It was quite another thing to see it so clearly on the faces of others. People had always assumed that there was something between them. They had been wrong. But not now. Now they knew! It was the most agonisingly embarrassing thing he had ever felt. And, at the same time, it felt spectacular. He belonged with Sherlock, and now everyone (well, the entire Met anyway) knew.

It made it all seem so … real!

He paced around his room, then lay on the bed for a while, but his body couldn't keep still. Might as well do something useful.

On his way down the stairs, he grabbed his jacket and called, "Sherlock! I'm gonna go to the shop. Do you need anything?"

There was no reply, but that was not unusual during a case.

When he came back, he could hear Sherlock moving about in his room, but the door was closed, and experience had taught him not to interrupt while the great detective was at work. There'd be plenty of time to talk and... other things, once this case was over.

And Sherlock had clearly indicated that it would not be long. From the sound of it, Mycroft was about to take the whole thing off their hands and make it go away in his usual manner. Normally, John would have been somewhat resentful about this, but right now, he wanted nothing more than for the whole thing to go away, so he and Sherlock could start focusing on working things out between them.

He put the shopping away, made himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, tucked his laptop under his arm and went to his room. Sherlock would no doubt let him know when he was finished thinking or whatever he was doing in his room.

When he came down, the door to Sherlock's room was open, and the whole place was quiet. Too quiet. Instantly he felt a knot of apprehension form in his gut. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He tried calling Sherlock's phone, but it was apparently switched off.

He held out for exactly ten minutes before calling Lestrade. Trying desperately to not sound as pathetically desperate as he knew he, in fact, was, he tried to explain why he was sure something had happened to Sherlock. Lestrade was concerned, but couldn't really do anything except tell everyone to keep an eye out.

And then he called Mycroft.

The phone only rang once, before it was picked up.

"John," was Mycroft's reply. "Is he gone?"

John was stunned.

"How...?" he stammered. "How did you know?"

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the back of Mycroft's car, panic and anger fighting to take control of his insides. Whatever the Holmes brothers were up to, he was gonna make them pay.

...

Sherlock woke up on a cold, hard surface, an all too familiar feeling of disorientation and dizziness clouding his senses. Relief washed over him. This was the one element he had not been able to confirm, but which was essential if this plan should have anything but a disastrous outcome.

He tried turning on his back, but his limbs felt like lead. He groaned.

"Good," said a voice somewhere above him. "You're awake."

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock mumbled, hating how the drug slurred his speech. This was so undignified.

"Here, let me give you a hand." A small warm hand took his wrist, and another supported his back, as he slowly sat up.

Then she moved in front of him, crouching so she could look him in the eyes. She held his head in her hands and studied him with professional concern. "You got quite a bit more than last time, but I don't think it did you any harm. But don't expect the headache to go away any time soon."

"Great," he managed. He was gaining a bit more control of his tongue, but still didn't quite trust it not to humiliate him. "How long?"

"Oh, 14 hours give or take," Satisfied that he was fine, Irene let go of him and stood up.

Sherlock couldn't suppress a moan. 14 hours? He could only imagine what John must be going through. Was he ever going to forgive him for this?

"So," he ventured after a long pause, "how are we doing this?"

Irene raised an eyebrow in surprise. Then she chuckled.

"You know it all don't you? So why ask?"

"I don't know everything," Sherlock replied. "If I had, this wouldn't have been necessary."

"Oh, so that's why you let them take you so easily: Curiosity?"

"Inevitability," Sherlock replied, rubbing his eyes with his hands. He really hated this part, the coming down off the drugs. Discreetly, he wiggled his toes, checking the transmitter was still in place. He could feel by the weight of his coat, that the gun had been removed. "It was either this or go into hiding. And I don't hide. At least I got to choose the time and place, to some extent."

Irene nodded. "Yes, I see your point. No need to make them come looking for you."

"Exactly."

Irene seemed contemplative for a while, and then started telling him what would happen.

...

John was throwing a tantrum that would have made Sherlock proud.

"You knew? You knew they were gonna take him? Your own brother? And you let them? You helped him?" He rushed at Mycroft, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him down, so that he could glare at him. Mycroft stooped.

"It was the only way..." he started, but John pushed him back in disgust.

"I can understand why Sherlock would think this was a good idea. But you?" he shot Mycroft a repulsed look. "And what now?"

Mycroft shuffled his feet, just a bit. "Now we wait."

"Wait!" John's voice rose to a scream. "Wait for what? For him to turn up dead? Hanging from a rope or... or worse?"

"Sherlock assured me that it would not come to that. Said he knew what he was doing," Mycroft did not, however, sound entirely sure of this himself.

"Oh! Well then, I suppose there's nothing to worry about," the sarcasm in John's voice was painful. "Because Sherlock always knows what he is doing."

John could tell that Mycroft was debating how much to tell him, and he held his anger back, waiting, hoping for something, anything that would make this seem not completely insane.

"Look, John. We know where he is, and we know, that, for now, he has not been harmed."

John stared at him, incredulous.

"You what?"

...

Sherlock let Irene blindfold him before leading him through the empty building – a hotel, judging by the feel of the carpets and the layout of the rooms. When they got to the stairs, two men joined them, one of them definitely the man in the combat boots from the Coventry crime scene. They went down two flights of stairs and the quality of the air indicated that they were now below ground level. An underground car park obviously.

Her hand on his shoulder, Irene guided him to the car and helped him get in the back. Then she slid in next to him. The two men got in the front. The one in the driver's seat was pretty large, judging by the shifting weight of the car, as he got in.

"Would there be any point in me asking where we are going?" he asked.

"Of course not," Irene replied.

...

Mycroft showed John the set-up of computers monitoring and tracking Sherlock. The audio was very poor, due to the location of the transmitter, and there was no visual. But a blinking red dot on the screen clearly indicated that Sherlock was, at the moment, being moved from an industrial area in the north towards the centre of London.

"As soon as we know where they are taking him, we're moving in," Mycroft explained. "But we have to wait until they get to the actual site, or we cannot be sure to get them all."

"And how do you know we'll get there in time?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, when John said 'we', but didn't comment.

...

Sherlock was dragged from the car by rough impatient hands. The ground below his feet was hard. Asphalt or concrete? He stomped his foot. Definitely asphalt. The sounds of traffic indicated inner city, which confirmed the bearings he had gotten in the car based on turns, stops and speed. He could not pinpoint it precisely, but he had a pretty good idea of which area he was in. This was their final destination. He squeezed his toes together, triggering the signal that told Mycroft to move.


	11. Chapter 11

John was positively screaming at the men restraining him. He had been allowed to come along to the site where Sherlock was being kept, but Mycroft had been very specific about John not getting anywhere near the actual scene before it was completely secured. He had tried to explain to John that he had made a solemn vow to Sherlock not to let him put himself in harm's way, but John had been livid. It was not until Mycroft had given him the ultimatum either staying behind or promising to keep back, that he had given in.

Having arrived at the office building, however, all promises were forgotten, and John had attempted to storm past Mycroft's men, to get to the stairs. He had been stopped and was now being held, gently, but irresistibly in place.

It was the worst kind of torture. Somewhere in the offices above him was Sherlock, and from what he'd gathered from Mycroft's explanation, he was in quite a lot of danger.

He knew there were men spread out across the building, heavily armed and very very good at their job, searching for Sherlock. But he irrationally felt that he needed to be there. That Sherlock's safety depended on him being there.

…

Irene approached Sherlock, from where he sat tied to the chair. She looked sad, as she smiled at him.

"I'm very sorry about this," she whispered, "but I don't have a choice." She started rolling up his sleeve.

…

"We found them," someone reported. "Third floor, office 6."

John whirled around landing, a punch on the chin of the man holding his left shoulder, and then he ducked and placed a solid kick in the chest of the man on his right. Ignoring shouts and complaints he ran.

…

Irene only took her eyes off his, for the time it took her to find a vein. Then, as the needle slid in, she looked up at him again. Her face was a mask of pain and sorrow. Then Sherlock felt the heat flooding out from his arm, surging through his body.

…

Out of breath, John raced up the stairs, blindly pushing people aside. When he reached the third floor, it took him a moment to locate the correct office. Shouts and orders echoed up behind him.

…

Sherlock's vision was already going blurry, when Irene leant in and kissed him softly. Then she gently pulled the black hood over his head, and he heard her walk away.

…

John slammed the door open and faced his worst nightmare. Tied to a chair, in the middle of the room, was Sherlock. His body was slumped forward, there was a black hood on his head and a rubber hose and syringe on the floor next to him. John just had time to register a door at the other end of the office closing, before he rushed to Sherlock, screaming his name in desperation.

He tore the hood off. Sherlock's eyes were half-closed and vacant. Foam was forming at the corners of his mouth.

Holding his face between his hands, John tried in vain to catch Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock," he moaned. "I'm here, I'm here. Hang on. Don't leave me. Please, don't do this. Fight!"

He heard movement around him, but it didn't quite register. Frantically, he started pulling at the restraints, keeping Sherlock in place, but they wouldn't budge. Someone's hands pushed his away, and he sensed a knife cutting through the plastic strips. When he was free, Sherlock fell forward into John's arms. He gently eased him onto the floor, while speaking softly, trying to convince him, to force him, to not give up.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head. He drew in one last shuttering breath and then was still.

…

They let him ride in the ambulance with Sherlock, the machines and paramedic assuring John that Sherlock was still alive, but his vital signs were so very weak. He held his hand and kept up a steady stream of whispered pleadings and assurances.

At the hospital, they would not let him stay with Sherlock. He had sat in the hard plastic chair in the waiting room for nearly 30 minutes, when Mycroft found him.

He kept a respectful distance, waiting for John to speak. When he didn't, Mycroft gently cleared his throat.

"John," he said, his voice weak and shaky. "I'm so very sorry. We thought we could get there in time. Sherlock said..."

"Sherlock's an idiot," John replied. "You know how he gets when he thinks he's being clever. Throws himself in there, convinced he's invulnerable."

Mycroft only shuffled his feet and looked down.

"It's up to us to know better," John continued. "We have to protect him from himself."

The tall man let out a deep shuddering breath, and John finally looked at him. His eyes were red and shining. John realised that the most powerful man in Britain was on the verge of tears. He almost took pity on him. Almost.

"You failed him," he concluded, and got up to walk away.

Mycroft reached out a hand to stop him, but John lashed out and yelled:

"Don't touch me. Don't you dare!"

Mycroft drew back, wary but keeping his composure. John had never wanted to hit someone so badly his entire life. Not even Sherlock, when he was being particularly...

The though made him catch his breath, and then he was sobbing, uncontrollably, sinking to his knees on the cold hospital floor.

Mycroft's hands were gentle on his shoulders, as they helped him rise and make his way back to the chair.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock woke up to the worst hangover of his life. His eyes were burning, his head was throbbing and his tongue felt dry and swollen. He tried to look around, but the light burned in his eyes.

He could hear voices in the room, but could not make out what they were saying.

Then he felt something cool and soft touch his forehead.

"Take it easy," a kind voice said, very close. "You are going to be all right."

…

John didn't know how long he had been crying. Mycroft's steady hand never left his shoulder. At long last the sobs had subsided and now he was reduced to silent weeping.

He heard footsteps approach and looked up to see the doctor in charge of Sherlock coming towards them. Mycroft stood up, but John didn't trust his legs, so he remained seated. He couldn't even bear to look at the man's face, knowing the pity in his eyes, as he was about to break the worst possible news to them.

Looking down at his feet, he heard Mycroft let out a strangled gasp.

Then he felt his hand on his shoulder again.

"John," Mycroft's voice was cracking. "You might want to hear this."

John finally looked up. It took him several moments to realise that the doctor was positively beaming at them.

"He's gonna be all right," he blurted out, when he was only halfway across the room. "He's waking up."

John didn't understand. Sherlock had been dying. Whatever poison had been in that needle, it had been shutting his body down. It had taken far too long to get him to the hospital. How could they possibly have saved him?

The doctor chuckled nervously and tried to explain. "He was never in any real danger. It was just a very powerful sedative mixed with some mild opiates. It took his body and brain for quite a ride, but did no lasting harm."

John was on his feet, grabbing the doctor's shoulders. "What?" was the only thing he could manage.

Mycroft took his arms and gently pulled him back. The doctor didn't seem to mind though. This was hardly the worst response he'd ever gotten when bringing news to family and loved ones.

"It very effectively mimicked the effects of many known poisons, but as I said, ultimately did him no harm. Except, of course, he'll be feeling a bit under the weather for a while. We gave him something to counter the drugs and speed up the recovery. He should be lucid within the hour"

The words were whirling around John's head. 'All right', 'no harm', 'waking up'. The relief was so great, that it was making him feel dizzy.

He heard Mycroft ask when they could see him, and then the world was slowly tipping over.

…

Sherlock's vision was returning somewhat, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Glad to see you are still with us, brother dear."

Sherlock groaned. "Go away." His throat was so dry, it came out more like a croak.

"Oh, don't worry, I will. I just wanted to see for myself that you actually did manage to come out of this one relatively unharmed."

"Yes, I'm fine. Just go." Sherlock waved at him impatiently. He just wanted to be left alone until everything stopped throbbing.

"Okay, I'm leaving. But you have another visitor."

Sherlock looked up hopefully, but then his face fell, as Mrs. Hudson rushed into the room, swooping down on him, almost drowning him in concern.

…

John woke up in a soft hospital bed, a very young nurse wiping his forehead with a wet cloth."

"Welcome back." She smiled at him.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

She pointed the way and John almost ran.

…

Mrs. Hudson was still fussing over him, when John appeared in the doorway. He didn't approach him, but just stood there, looking, his eyes wide, his face unreadable.

"John," Sherlock grinned at him. John just nodded.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock could sense that something was troubling John. Something besides concern for his well being. But with Mrs. Hudson and two nurses in the room, it wasn't the right time to explore it. Besides, his head still hurt and he was feeling tired.

"I'm okay," he managed. John nodded solemnly.

"They tell me you can come home tomorrow."

"Good," Sherlock's eyelids were growing heavy. One of the nurses approached him, checking his pupils and pulse. The other one gestured for Mrs. Hudson and John to leave.

"He needs rest," she told them.

…

John and Mrs. Hudson shared a cab home. She was twittering the whole way about poor Sherlock, and two times John actually had to bite his lip not to snap at her.

He just wanted some time alone. Time to think.

When they got home, she offered to make him some tea, but he politely declined and made his way upstairs.

Alone in their flat at last, he collapsed into a chair and let it all wash over him.

The panic, grief, relief and happiness all swirled and intermingled, and through it all, there was one singular thought growing ever stronger and more dominant, until it took over his mind completely. He was never going to forgive Sherlock for this.

…

Mycroft called him in the morning, insisting that he come along to pick up Sherlock. The car would be there at noon, so John had several hours to pace the flat debating with himself exactly how he was gonna pay Sherlock back for putting him through this. He had known since that first day that Sherlock could not resist a chance to prove that he was right, even if it meant putting himself in the way of potential harm. But this was a whole new level of stupid. There was no way that Sherlock could possibly have known what would be in that syringe. Judging from the other victims, the kidnappers intent had clearly been to kill him.

Why was he not dead?

That first time, it had been John who had saved him. But this time, and that was what hurt the most, John had been too late. He had faced losing Sherlock because he, John, had failed him. The guilt and grief had nearly driven him out of his mind. Sherlock having survived through some strange twisted miracle did not change the fact that John had not been able to save him.

Would it always be like this now? He had worried about Sherlock ever since becoming his friend, but now the concern had multiplied to an unbearable intensity. How could he carry on living with this ever-present anxiety that could so easily be turned into terror by the random acts of this brilliant reckless madman?

These thoughts led to another point that was really pissing him off: Sherlock knew how John felt, how this would hurt him. And he had still done it.

John couldn't wait to get Sherlock home and tell him exactly how he felt about him and all this.

…

Sherlock was still feeling exhausted both physically and mentally, when a smiling nurse brought him a clean change of clothes.

"You're brother is waiting to take you home," she informed him.

Sherlock almost asked if it was just his brother. When he woke up this morning, the first thought in his head had been that John was upset with him.

It hadn't quite registered, when he had seen John in the doorway to his room. He had still been affected by the drugs, confused and tired.

But now John's face and his body language hovered in his mind, and it was painfully clear that though John was relieved, he was also very very angry.

Sherlock could not blame him. He knew when he set out on this, that there was a risk involved. Not just the risk of him getting hurt, but of him hurting John. Even when they were just friends, even when they barely knew each other, John had been upset at the thought of Sherlock risking his health in the process of solving a case. It had been the subject of many an argument, when John felt that Sherlock had, once again, been particularly reckless.

And in hindsight, he had to admit that this one ranked pretty high on that scale.

He doubted he could ever make John see how it had been the only solution – that the risk was acceptable compared to the benefits of solving this specific case. For once in his life, Sherlock desperately hoped Mycroft could help him out.

…

John had not gone in with Mycroft, but chosen to stay in the car. This gave him even more time to brood over the events and formulate the scolding he was gonna give Sherlock, as soon as he had him on his own.

His resentment, however, did nothing to stop his heart from leaping with joy and relief, as he saw Sherlock make his way to the car, Mycroft close behind him. Sherlock looked tired and more than a little apprehensive, as he caught John's eyes. John hoped that what he saw there was anger and reproach, and not the giddy happiness that was currently running through him. He was determined not to let him off the hook any time soon.

As the car pulled out onto the busy street, Sherlock started to explain.

When he saw the warehouse scene, he had realised that it was all for Mycroft's benefit. Coventry had been an allusion to the Coventry Conundrum, a reminder of Mycroft's most recent failure. The warehouse was one of the many sites Mycroft used for his, admittedly rather eccentric, secret meetings, (at this John realised why the place had seemed so familiar). Using it was a way to let him know that, to Apex, he had no secrets.

Nedza had, of course, died from the wound sustained in Coventry, but the other two had been suffocated. So the arrangement of the bodies had nothing to do with their own deaths, but was a message to Mycroft. They represented three out of the five methods of execution used in the United States. Mycroft's interference in Apex' plans had recently led to three of their most prominent members receiving capital sentences in Texas. The three victims were obviously chosen for their own history with Mycroft. So, it turned out that it was Apex itself that had killed the three men, combining punishment for failure with letting Mycroft know that they were not going tolerate his interferences any more.

Having deduced this, Sherlock explained, the rest was an easy conclusion. They would not settle for warning Mycroft. They would if possible, try to get rid of him for good. But Mycroft was a very hard man to get to. And there were two methods of execution left: lethal injection and electrocution. So obviously there were two more intended victims: Mycroft and, to hurt him the deepest before killing him, Sherlock himself. Apex had intended Sherlock's death to provoke Mycroft into rash retaliation, exposing himself to risk.

…

As Sherlock laid out his findings, he never took his eyes off John, but he never, not once, returned his gaze. Instead, he was looking out the window at the people and buildings flashing by, his face set and hard. Sherlock knew that John was just waiting for them to be alone, before venting his anger and frustration. He supposed he couldn't blame him, but he felt himself growing increasingly frustrated with the stubborn doctor. Would he ever be able to let this go?

As Sherlock explained how letting himself be caught, with the transmitter on him, had been the only way to lure the ever elusive Apex into the open, John suddenly turned to face him with a look of accusation and blame.

"You miscalculated," he said. "You thought Mycroft's men would get to you in time. They didn't! You should have died!"

Sherlock permitted himself a little wry smile.

"I knew they would most likely be too late, but the risk of me dying was, as my sitting here now is evidence to, almost nonexistent."

At this, Mycroft interrupted.

"How?"

"Irene," Sherlock replied, and both men gaped at him.

He went on to explain how he had surmised Irene's involvement in all of this. Her being in Coventry was obviously connected to the case, and after ejecting her from Baker Street, he had finally put the pieces together. Knowing of their history, Apex had considered Irene the most direct way of getting to Sherlock. She was supposed to get him on her own, drug him and hand him over. John's insistence on chaperoning them had delayed this, and then Irene herself had aborted it.

"I couldn't figure out why she would seduce John," he explained, ignoring John's visible discomfort at this, "until I realised that she was an unwilling participant in the scheme."

She was being coerced, and trying to avoid being a party to Sherlock's death, she had found a way to effectively exclude her from his presence without giving Apex cause to suspect that she was not cooperating fully. Sherlock throwing her out had been the best possible excuse to not carry out her task.

But they would not let her off the hook that easily. So, getting her to perform the actual execution of Sherlock was the logical choice. A fitting punishment for her failure. Irene had managed to switch the drugs, thus returning the favour and saving Sherlock's life. Once more, her sentiment had worked in his favour.

"Let me get this straight," John asked, his outrage apparent. "You actually counted on that... that woman to get you out of this?"

Why did he make it sound like that made things even worse? Sometimes John was downright exasperating.

Sherlock looked to Mycroft.

"I suppose she got away?"

Mycroft shook his head, a smug smile spreading on his face.

"She exited by the back stairs and ran straight into me. While my men were securing the Apex operatives in the building, I had the distinct pleasure," his grimace made John snort," of escorting the irate miss Adler to a secure location, where she will be kept under house arrest until we figure out what to do with her."

"What secure location?" John asked.

Sherlock took one look at his brother, and then turned to John and answered: "His own house."

At this John couldn't hold back a guffaw. "What? Why?"

Mycroft shifted a little uncomfortably.

"It is one of the safest places for her, at the moment. Apex could not get to me there, so there is very little chance of them trying to come for her. And if they do, it will be to our advantage, allowing us to take even more of their minions."

John met Sherlock's eyes, and for a brief moment, they shared some of their old companionship, each reading clearly in the other's eye how Mycroft and Irene would soon be driving each other up the walls.

But the moment passed without the customary laugh at Mycroft's expense. Instead, John just snorted quietly and once again turned away.

Sherlock had to suppress the urge to shake him.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I have a written statement ready for you to sign, Sherlock, but you will need to add those final details that you did not see fit to share with me earlier."

Sherlock nodded.

…

When they arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft followed them up so that Sherlock could write Irene into his statement. As he was working on it, John stood by the hearth, fighting to keep in his anger.

Then Sherlock chuckled at something he was writing, and John lost it.

"How could you possibly be so dense, as to count on her to save you?"

Sherlock looked up, surprised and then angry.

"I was not being dense. I was being right!" He got up and walked towards John.

"You had no way of knowing that. She could just as easily have killed you! Or they could have! It was the most insane gamble you've ever taken."

"I never gamble. I knew exactly what I was doing!"

"Oh yeah? And why did you not see fit to let me in on what you were doing? Do you have any idea what I went through?"

Sherlock paused at this. John could see in his eyes that he had known exactly what he what he was putting him through. This only fuelled his rage.

"You knew, didn't you? After everything we've been through, you still have absolutely no regard for my feelings. You'll tear my heart out and then expect me to be there afterwards to pick up the pieces for you!"

"I was trying to protect you!" Sherlock's voice was matching John's, both in volume and rage now.

"You were trying to avoid me stopping you from being so incredibly stupid!"

"Stupid? I am a certified genius!"

"Well, in your case, clearly the one doesn't rule out the other!"

Neither of them knew who moved first. (Mycroft could probably have told them, but he wasn't saying, and they would never ask.)

Thinking back, John was never really sure exactly what had happened. One minute, he was screaming his rage at the most infuriatingly intolerable man in the world, and the next, he was hanging on for dear life, being snogged senseless, by the most perfect creature in all of creation.

Time stood still, and the world spun off course.

Then Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I know this seems rather trivial, but I really do need to get that statement, Sherlock."

Their lips disengaged with an audible pop, and John's world fell back into place, making him reel. Their eyes found each other, and a thousand unanswerable questions flickered between them, finally settling on a simple 'okay?' which was immediately answered by their synchronous sighs of confirmation and relief.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's tone was pleading, almost desperate. "The statement, please, and I'll be on my way."

Not taking his eyes off John, Sherlock reached out his hand, and Mycroft took the paper and pen from the table and handed them to him.

"Hold that thought," Sherlock whispered, and then turned to the mantelpiece, resting the paper on it to write.

John seriously doubted anyone but his brother would ever be able to decipher the lightning speed scrawl, with which Sherlock filled out the rest of the page. Then he tossed it at Mycroft, who was out the door in a nanosecond.

John hadn't moved. He was pretty sure that, if he tried to, his legs would buckle under him. His brain was still struggling with this new reality, and it was all he could manage to keep breathing.

Sherlock looked at him, suddenly shy and tentative.

"John?"

Lost for words, John just reached out his hand, and Sherlock was with him.

It was different. Tender and hesitant, but passionate. Lips caressing, tongues exploring, their breaths becoming deeper, finding a common rhythm. John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's back pulling him closer. Sherlock's hand went to John's cheeks, reminding him of that night on the street corner, not even a week ago.

'How did we get here?' his brain demanded of him. 'Never mind,' answered a deeper, softer voice inside him. 'We're here, that's all that matters.'

The kisses grew hotter, and John found his hands tucking at the back of Sherlock's shirt, pulling it free of his trousers so that he could get his hands in and finally touch skin. Sherlock gasped at the sensation, and then he grabbed the hem of John's jumper, pulling it up. The kiss broke, for just a second, and then they were locked together again, hands now moving more eagerly over new territories.

Their bodies pressed together, and John registered something hard pressing against his body just below his navel.

Oh, God. During all his fantasies and dreams about Sherlock, he had never really dwelled on that part. He wasn't just kissing Sherlock; he was kissing a man!

He gasped and pulled away, and saw how Sherlock's expression changed from passion to concern, in the blink of an eye.

"John?" he searched his face. "Is something wrong?"

"No," John managed, staggering backwards, until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he slumped down. He buried his face in his hands. "It's just so... so... much."

Sherlock squatted in front of him, hands resting on John's knees.

"I know," he whispered. "John. It's all right."

But John still felt he needed to explain.

"It's not that I don't want..." he gestured with one hand in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock caught it, gently brought it up and kissed the palm. "... you." John finished, hoping that Sherlock understood. "It's all just ..."

"Shh." Sherlock moved his hand to John's shoulder, stroking it gently. "I know. I know. John," he let go of John's hand, and instead took his chin, bringing his face up. Helpless to resist John opened his eyes. Sherlock had never looked more sincere than when he, emphasising every syllable, said: "It's okay."

"Sherlock. Please. Hold me?"

They ended up on the sofa, Sherlock on his back with John lying half on top of him, his head on Sherlock's chest. Their arms were wrapped around each other and their legs tangled. Another echo from the tumultuous week that had brought them here.

Sherlock's hand slid up John's back and finally settled in his hair, letting his long fingers tangle in it. He revelled in its softness and the tingling it sent through his body. He kissed the top of John's head, breathing in his scent.

"I could get used to this," John muttered, face half-buried in Sherlock's shirt.

"Please do," was Sherlock's reply. For a very long time, they just lay there, hands gently stroking, touching, feeling. At some point, exhausted from the emotional strain of the past day they drifted off to sleep.


	13. Epilogue

John woke first and watched Sherlock as he slept. In his mind, he kept replaying the events of the last seven days. The Kiss, the doubts and misunderstandings, the touches and the looks. But also the fear and the anger. And most of all, he thought about last night, how everything had suddenly fallen into place, and it all just made sense.

And then there had been his moment of doubt. He chided himself a little. It was so silly of him, after coming so far, and fighting so hard to get there, to panic at the last moment. But it was only natural, he supposed. At some point, he was gonna have to think this whole thing through. What it meant. What it made him. What it made them.

But not now. Now was not the time for thought he decided. Sherlock was stirring, so John bent over to wake him up with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this last bit was very short. Hope you're not too disappointed. I considered extending it, but too me it's just perfect as it is.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta, gbheart, for all the help with the language and plot. And especially thanks for your very kind words.
> 
> And thank you to all of you who have been reading this. I'm so glad you stuck with me through this. And thank you for your comments. As many other fanfic writers, I crave your feedback, so please let me know what you think.
> 
> This was my first long fic, initially posted on fanfic.net. I Have some other stuff that I'll be posting in the near future and am working on several new projects.
> 
> \- Locked -


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